Trevor rolled onto his back and looked at me. “That couch,” he said, “is too friggin hard you ask me.”

It couldn’t have been more than three hours since he’d passed out, but Trevor was sober now. Completely sober, it seemed. His eyes were bright, unclouded. He sat up and rubbed them.

“Ah well. Guess we might as well get up, if we’re up.”

“Get out,” I said again. I’d slept barely a handful of hours, but it felt like I’d had twenty cups of coffee.

Unhurriedly, Trevor flung his legs over the side of the bed. “You having a shower?” he asked.

“No, I’m not having a fucking shower!”

“Go on if you want to,” said Trevor. “I’ll get some breakfast going.” He stood up, stretched again, and lumbered out of the room.

“No,” I said, but he was off down the hall.

I threw on some clothes and went into the living room to look around. Normally, I kept my phone on the bedside table, but it wasn’t there this morning. It wasn’t on the coffee table either. I went down into the foyer and dug into my purse. It wasn’t there. I was going to have to check the kitchen next.

I went back upstairs and stood in the entryway as if I wanted to talk to him.

“I want you to go now,” I said, scanning the countertops.

“All right,” said Trevor, scooping coffee grounds into the filter. “Let’s just have a cup of joe and then I’ll haul my hungover arse on outta here, ok?”

“No!”

Trevor yawned and grimaced simultaneously. “Don’t get all shrieky, you’re gonna wake up Beaner.”

“I’m gonna call the cops if you’re not out of here in the next five seconds, Trevor,” I said.

“You’re not gonna call the cops on that phone with the broken screen,” said Trevor, flicking on the coffee machine. I knew from the previous morning he’d spent with us that Trevor’s coffee was going to be terrible. I always made it single-­serving with a pour-over filter I’d brought from home, but Trevor’s way was to dump an obscene amount of grounds into my mother’s rickety Canadian Tire coffee maker and top that up with an even more obscene amount of water. The resulting gallons of muddy liquid were like nothing I’d ever tasted.

I was thinking about this, I guess, to delay thinking about the fact that Trevor knew about my broken screen. Which meant, perhaps, he’d seen my phone — and maybe even knew where it was.

“The phone works fine,” I said.

“Pfft,” said Trevor. “I’d love to see you make a call with that cracked-up piece of shit.” Turning away from the coffee maker, which creaked and hissed as it expanded with heat, he leaned against the counter to face me.

“Where is it?” I said.

Trevor shrugged. “How would I know where your phone is?”

I turned away from him, went down into the foyer, and pulled on a pair of sneakers. This was dumb, amygdala-driven instinct. I didn’t know exactly what I was doing — it was feeling like I needed armour. Trevor came to the top of the stairs and watched me.