There was an investigation—another car had run a red light—but that date night, Lisa revealed something to Jeff she’d never told anyone before about why she carried the guilt of Stacey’s death with her every day. Jeff was so understanding as he comforted her.

“I know what you’re going through.” Then, fighting his own tears as Lisa rubbed his shoulder, he revealed how his father had been killed.

Jeff was eleven when he had gone hunting with his dad and his dad’s friend Charlie. At one point Jeff had been running toward his dad, when he fell and a shot echoed.

“They say I blacked out for a moment because I hit my head when I fell. But when I came to, my dad was on the ground,” Jeff said. “Charlie had accidentally shot him. I don’t remember much. Sometimes bits of what happened come back to me in flashes, and sometimes…” Jeff paused. “Charlie always said that he shot my dad, but… I remember kneeling over my dad and crying as he spoke his last words to me, and… I just don’t know.”

Jeff stopped, searching for some composure before he resumed.

“After my dad died, we lost everything. There was no insurance—my mom lost her job, then the house. We ended up living in shelters, in a van, on the street.” Jeff brushed at his tears.

Jeff told her about how he still sometimes blanked out, had anger issues and sleepwalked sometimes. “I’m a real piece of work. Does that scare you?”

“No,” she said. “It only makes me feel closer to you.”

They were psychologically scarred people, but that night when they’d shared what they guarded in the most private corners of their fractured, guilt-laced hearts, they’d bonded.

Lisa blinked several times at the memory.

She resumed working, but her thoughts drifted to the people she had supervised in Cleveland. She missed her team: Cheyenne, the eco warrior who rode her bike, always harping about SUV owners, coming in with her backpack stuffed as if on alert for deployment; Dorian, the guy always dressed impeccably even on casual Fridays; Leena, the goddess who knew everything about beauty products; and Danuta, the soft-spoken vegan.

In Lisa’s recent exchange of business emails, she hadn’t told them about the intruder. She didn’t feel comfortable opening that door. Now, here she was alone, grieving her lost human connections, unable to concentrate on her work. She tried consoling herself with the fact her report was nearly done and wasn’t due for another two weeks when her phone vibrated.

Her sister, Joy, had sent a text.

Hey, I’m free for a video chat if you are.

In the past days, Joy was the only person Lisa had told about the attack, pouring her heart into a torrent of texts, hoping they’d find time for a video call.