The scene put her in the middle of the room, Chicken having retreated about three paces toward his room with all the now-empty birdcages. Darlene was near her room, and Candy sat on the back of a chair, feet on the seat, back to the wall, leaning forward. It was almost like Kenzie was surrounded.

I wouldn’t have wanted to handle it that way. Making such a point of it.

Especially not after the whole thing last night, when the Heartbroken had turned on her. She looked visibly anxious.

“You do that sometimes,” Chicken Little said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad or upset,” Chicken Little said, insistent, like he was already expecting or seeing resistance that didn’t come across on the camera. Maybe it was how fast the apology had come after his statement. I could almost relate, thinking to my dealings with Amy.

I really didn’t want to connect Kenzie and Amy in my head.

“Sorry,” Kenzie said, still a bit defensive.

Difference is that Amy doesn’t say sorry. I’m not even convinced she feels sorry.

They’re both really bad at listening or noticing cues when it’s stuff they don’t want to hear, though.

“I’m just trying to explain so we can be better friends in the future,” Chicken Little went on. “You get into whatever you’re talking about and the conversation becomes one-sided, and it gets really hard to get a word in, especially if I’m trying to say step back a bit or stuff.”

I typed out more words. Take five. Or ask for a short break.

Kenzie didn’t react.

“Can I call in?” I asked. “Talk to her?”

“If you tell us in advance what you’re going to—”

I interrupted, “I want to reassure her, distract her, refocus her. She’s a kid who had a surprise bad night after a bad evening and I want to ensure today goes more smoothly. I want her to take a break.”

“Can you fill us in on what happened yesterday? I don’t think that’s in the notes.”

“Do I need to submit a damn form? What, in triplicate?” I asked. “I want to help a kid by calling for a short conversation. Nothing to do with Warden concerns.”

“Everything’s to do with Warden concerns.”

Armstrong looked concerned as he walked back over to where his chair and laptop were. Citrine was unmoving at the head of the table, elbows on the white surface, hands clasped together and pressed to her mouth. Or around it. I wouldn’t be mushing up my hands to my mouth if I’d paid as much attention to lipstick as Citrine had.

No fucking allies. Fucking idiots, all of them.

That stab of loneliness. The frustration.