I FLICK OFF the bathroom light and turn the water to its hottest setting. Gray calls them my “sadbaths.” But I kind of hate that. It’s too close to Sabbath, and if I’m going to worship something, it’s not going to be at the altar of depression and soap scum.

But there’s just something about hot water and scorched skin and a quiet dark room that’s . . . soothing. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend it’s my worries swirling around the drain instead of cheap hotel shampoo. Dad still hasn’t bothered to stock my bathroom, so I’m relying on shit I stole from the casino. But still, it’s fine.

I can’t label what I’m feeling right now, but my head’s been spinning since yesterday when Peak gave me that book, shoved it into my hands like it was no big deal. Like I deserved it just because I wanted it. Wait, no, not Peak, Jubilee. Jubilee Jones. I’m trying so hard to keep them separate.

It’s harder than I thought.

I lean my head against the wall. I thought it would feel different to be back in this house. I don’t know what I expected. Like I would be better somehow if the water beating down on me was from pipes that run underneath the floor I learned to walk on instead of the floor of a new-construction house with no history and heating problems. And yet.

And yet.

I just feel more alone. If this isn’t my home and that isn’t my home, do I even have one?

I finish up, wrap myself in a towel, and pad across the floor. I wriggle my toes appreciatively when the cool tile of the bathroom gives way to the plush carpet of the hallway, leaving damp footsteps in my wake.

My ex-therapist suggested I keep a running list of good things to look at when all seems lost. I think she wanted me to actually write it down, but I never did. It’s more of a running tally in my head. I add plush carpeting to the list, right after dewy spiderwebs, but before baristas of any gender wearing sparkly nail polish.

I grab a pair of boxers out of the duffel bag by the nightstand, shaking them out like anybody’s going to care they’re wrinkled, and then I flop back onto the bed with my phone. The urge to text Peak is strong, but I don’t know. I kind of just want to think more about Jubilee right now. And I know, I KNOW they’re the same.

But compartmentalization and all that.

I slide the comic out from where I hid it under my pillow, frowning at the silly sentimentality. It’s not like it means anything; she didn’t even have to pay for it. She probably doesn’t even remember giving it to me.

It’s fine.