Grace was stirring, making little sounds. If I nursed her now, she would probably drift off without waking my parents. She ate quickly, without opening her eyes, and before half an hour had passed, I was placing her back in the crib.

But I was brutally awake.

The television was in the other room. I hadn’t brought any earbuds, and the sound on my phone might wake Grace up. My fingers itched for movement, something to tear and fold, something to do. And Molly hadn’t left so much as a spare scrap of paper where I could find it.

So I pulled up a game, swiping colored squares on my phone with the sound off, hoping the repetition would put me back to sleep. But whether it was the light from the screen or the mild competitive thrill I got from winning, the endorphin rush of doing it over and over again, I was getting further and further from sleep.

An old impulse pulled at me, born from the dark, the phone in my hand, the feeling that what I did here in this strange space didn’t matter. I opened up Aimee’s social media accounts. Her Twitter hadn’t been updated for a couple of days and included just a cryptic quote designed to make her sound deep: Life is the Medium; Living is the Art. Her Instagram featured an artfully arranged photo of a coffee shop I knew well, one right around the corner from the museum. The filter was set to blur everything except the close-up of a mug of coffee—which I knew was black with cinnamon—and a folded arts page of the paper over the caption Old School Monday Morning. Almost a week out of date.

Then on Facebook, I struck gold. A story was still up, something she had to have posted within the last twenty-four hours. Aimee at a club, leaning against the bar, cocktail in hand, between two people with their backs to the camera. Her angled bob was a little shorter, her lipstick a little darker, and her pose was a little overly theatrical. There was the time stamp. Four hours ago.

I waited for the bitter taste of envy or anger, but that poison seemed to have drained away. Even those postcards were almost quaint, relics of a bygone relationship, designed to hurt me with paper darts in a world where real bullets had grazed my head.