She’s fallen into the story with me so easily, it’s like she was always meant to tell the other half of it. My hamster heart is in its death throes now. Why is she talking to me beyond what’s required to get my painting? Why does she seem to care about this story we’re making up? Something doesn’t compute. She’s an unexpected side quest on the quacktacular odyssey that is my life.

Before I write back to Zoe, I send a text to Will.

Fine, we can go to stupidfuckinghomecoming.

Zoe is sure to be at the dance.

I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about the texts Zoe and I exchanged during lunch. She went quiet during the period after that, but part of me is still wandering around up in the stars. I want to know where Humphrey’s story goes and where it might take us. Even more, I want to know how and why she ended up in it with me.

When I get home from school, I toss the mail on the kitchen counter for my mom and then head straight upstairs to get started on my homework. Time alone in the house is precious and must be optimized for any tasks that are better done without interruptions. Once Mom arrives, my time will no longer be mine. I manage to type up a shitty first draft of a history essay and am halfway through my calculus homework when my phone vibrates on my nightstand. I jump up from my papasan chair, shivering as I leave the soft nest of afghans knitted by Mom.

Will’s with Kitty tonight on his long-awaited study date, so I’m not expecting to hear from him until afterward. The rest of my minuscule contact list is made up of unfortunate souls who had to collaborate with me on group projects for school or online pen pals I stopped talking to years ago. Who would text me?

Then a stupid hopeful feeling rises out of nowhere that I want to kick back into whichever of Tartarus’s fiery armpits it came from.

Maybe it’s her.

I pick up the phone to see a message from Mom and curse the fleeting pang that it’s not Zoe.

Mom: I’m on my way!

I look at the clock and a bolt of panic lances through me. I should have started dinner half an hour ago. I scramble downstairs to get the prep work done before Mom gets home, already at a disadvantage because I don’t even know what I’m going to make. There isn’t much to work with, but we have some leftover roast beef from the weekend. Stroganoff, or whatever bastardized version I can create out of what’s in our fridge, will have to do.