“Yeah, I know.”

“Are you okay?” he asks now.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” Ben says, and he puts his head in his hands. Then he stands up. “Right, I think I should go. Anju’s been waiting up for me, and . . . yeah.”

“Okay,” I say. Ben stands still for a moment, just watching me. I realize that he’s waiting for me to stand too. As I do, Ben unplugs his phone and starts winding the cord around the plug of the charger.

We walk down the hall and down the stairs in silence. When we get to the front door, I say, tentatively, “I’m really sorry about the duck.”

“It’s fine,” Ben says, his face still glum, his keys hanging from a finger.

“Okay. I’m going to hang out in my studio for a bit, so . . . I guess I’ll see you—”

“Yeah,” Ben says. “Sorry, Lydia, I’ve got to go.” He leaves through the door without looking at me. The door slams shut. I stand in the hall and wait for the sound of the gate closing too, and then I go back to my studio.

I’ve been sitting with my back against the wall for what feels like hours and hours, wondering how I feel, and not being able to find a definitive answer. I’ve tried texting Ben but, each time, whatever I write feels wrong and I delete it and don’t send anything. At nine in the morning, I get a text from Anju, asking if I want to meet for a late lunch on Monday. I say that I’m not entirely sure when or if I’ll have a lunch break but I’ll let her know.

I don’t really feel anything as I text her. I don’t feel bad, but I also don’t feel especially good, as I had done, yesterday, about the prospect of meeting her. It’s almost as though my brain has compartmentalized her, along with her connection to Ben and to what happened last night, and made me think of her as someone disconnected from my life here at the factory entirely. It’s like I’m not actually seeing her as human anymore. When I think of her face, and try to imagine it expressing sadness, or happiness, or any other emotion, I can’t. “Yeah, sure ttyl x,” she replies.