My eyes had landed eventually on the pink coiled rubber key chain that she sometimes stretched out to the size of a basketball and then watched shrink back down, then on the sticker on the back window, which was shattered now, that bore the name of the band Death Cab for Cutie, which she had meticulously stuck there even though it wasn’t her car and her parents both hated it and thought it seemed like bad luck.

I took in the neutral buildings around us: the McDonald’s that wasn’t open past midnight and the gas station and ABC store nearby.

Everything I observed in that time, which was only a few seconds, seemed suddenly to be doomed and to have always been doomed to be a part of that moment. Omens, portents of tragedy. All pieces that had to fall into place on the march toward the inevitable, as if this scene could not, would not, have happened if she had a different key chain. The shorts were a part of it. The tank top, the shoes and socks. They were all a part of it, suddenly promoted to the ominously important positions of being The Tank Top and The Shorts and The Shoes and Socks.

Because I knew she was dead. Right away. Now I wonder if I had firm confirmation, if maybe I’d tried to shake her or something, but in my memory, it was just the strong instinct and the way her body was positioned. Or maybe a soul knows when it’s suddenly alone.

Whatever it was, I knew she was gone.

Seeing her at Joy’s the other day, it hadn’t been simply the shock of seeing someone who had been absent. It was as if her body had reconstructed itself, bones cracking and righting themselves until she stood before me, like a Tim Burton character, back from the dead and fully restored.

My mind loops for a while on these images until it finally grows weary and slows down again.

Once my breathing has returned to normal, Kiera pushes my hair off my damp face, pats me on the back, and says, “I have an idea. Why don’t you slip back into something comfy and we’ll watch a little Titanic, eh? We can eat somethin’ and have some tea. We’ll watch someone else’s horrible tragedy. What do you say?”

I breathe in deeply, letting the muscles in my stomach relax—or at least deflate—a little. In my real life, if I got anywhere close to feeling this intensity of emotion, I’d be jumping on the Peloton or booking it to Equinox. Or taking one of my prescribed Xanax.

It’s not until I think about this that I realize that, since that first night landing in Avalon, I haven’t actually had a panic attack.

Except for this burst of very real, worthy emotion, I’ve been okay. Despite it all.