She felt neither pain nor pleasure, neither relief nor regret. She simply was—numb and motionless. Waiting for the world to happen again.

She’d thought herself cured this morning. What a joke.

Imogen ran her hand over her head. She was grasping at that feeling of relief. That sense that she had cleansed the old and was now someone new. Someone who had shed the weight of what had been before. And for a moment she felt it. She felt that she was not trapped in who she had been, in who her mind had tried to shape her into being. Felt the delicate prickle of her freshly shorn hair against the palm of her hand.

But now that sensation was gone, replaced with the awareness that she had no idea who this new Imogen was. She had no idea who she wanted to be. And even if she did, she had no idea how she would get there.

Imogen leaned against a bookshelf, must have been the manga section, ready to sag against its weight. Ready to give in again. But she had to pull herself off this bookshelf. She had to investigate.

Imogen made it all the way to the door of the break room when it clattered open, slamming against the back wall. Brooding Art Boy came out of it, looking like he could have taken down all the bookshelves in the store, like that opening scene in The Mummy.

Wham, wham, whoosh, boom. A row of shelves and books toppling over like dominoes.

Imogen could see the rage flickering in his eyes. Understood it better than she understood herself. For a moment, he said nothing. And for an even longer moment, Imogen said nothing. She’d never heard Brooding Art Boy string more than four words together. Much less thought he was capable of slamming a door against a wall or destroying an entire bookstore.

But it seemed imperative, really, that she talk to him. Imogen gestured to the bookshelf beside her and said, “Wanna sit?”

“More of a lean, isn’t it?” But he took a place right beside her, letting the shelf bear his weight as well.

And that sagging nothing in Imogen’s chest lifted for a moment with the knowledge that Imogen was not alone. That someone else felt this crushing weight of existence as much as she did. That someone else needed to lean against a wall and take a break from the world for a little while.

She could help. She needed to help.

In truth the sun does not rise.

“What is with today?” he asked. The question was almost to Imogen, but also, almost to the air or to the books.

“Today?” asked Imogen. “It feels like this every day, doesn’t it?”

He turned toward her, as though he were seeing her for the first time. “Maybe. But I’ve never had it feel like this.”

“I have,” said Imogen.

“For how long?”