Across the street, men are repairing the roof of the neighbor’s house. I listen to the sounds of hammers and the humming of some unseen machinery, and watch as they clamber across the roof without ropes or cables. Just a slip, I think. But the men look sturdy, with their quick feet and tool belts, throwing scraps of black membrane below. But that’s just it, isn’t it, I think bitterly. The tightrope walker is careful, every fiber of her being attuned to the vibrations of the rope, the expanse of air beneath her feet. The rest of us are just racing across shingles, too sure of our own purpose to secure a lifeline before we’re tumbling backward into nothingness.

I shake out the concoction of pills the doctor prescribed and avoid my reflection in the mirror. The bandages on my face were removed before I left the hospital, but the wounds are still pink and raw-looking. The biggest risk is infection, so I’m supposed to inspect each burn for redness and swelling. There’s mineral oil to massage into my skin twice a day and a compression sleeve for my arm to prevent the thickening of the skin graft. I’ve been told not to leave the house without sunscreen and to drink plenty of fluids. That I may tire easily, and my body may have difficulties regulating its temperature. That the new layers of skin will bruise, and the redness may never fade. Essentially, that this is my new normal, so to get used to it.

Once I finish, I leave the house in a hurry. On my way out, I grab a navy ball cap from the coatrack.

I park near the station entrance. Truman’s car is there, as usual taking up two spaces. But I don’t see Teddy’s bike or Oliver’s VW.

I call Teddy before I even realize I’m doing it and hang up before it goes to voicemail. Normally, we’d go into something like this together. Strategize how best to sweet-talk Truman to get what we want—Teddy’s strong suit, not mine. But it doesn’t look like that will be happening today.

I straighten my shoulders as I walk through the lobby. Amy’s nowhere in sight, thank god, but Truman’s door is open, and I hear the pounding of keys under his heavy breathing.

When I knock on the wall, he stands and moves toward me, arms half-opened in what looks alarmingly like a hug.

“Hi, Lieutenant,” I say casually, putting the chair next to his desk between us and tilting my head to give him a good look at my face under the cap.

His mouth forms a surprised O before he can cover it.

I smile, and instead of a hug, he places a warm hand on my right shoulder.