Then one of the curtains in the front windows twitched, and I was suddenly self-conscious. Even when I saw it was Bibi, popping up and down in the window under the edge of the curtain as she leapt, I tugged Michael’s hand. Rahmia had felt like a potential friend. I didn’t want her to think I was some kind of stalker, checking up on her story.

As the daylight ebbed away, the lighted windows seemed to brighten, each a pinhole theater, inviting our gaze. In one, a vermilion wall displayed an oversized poster of Marilyn Monroe. In another, a man watered plants, the circular front window framing him like a piece of performance art.

Everyday activities by everyday people, surrealistically ordinary.

We’d been walking in silent harmony, I thought, like we often did as a kind of transition, a space between our workday and our time together at home. But then Michael asked, “Did you get a recommendation from Dr. Johnson?” and my whole body tensed.

I’d forgotten. My head was still so slow, and I’d opened the box from Aimee, and then Rahmia came by, and—all the excuses spiraled through me, fueled by shame.

“I didn’t.” I could hear the edge in my voice as clearly as Michael surely could. It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. But, goddammit, I was doing the best I could.

He didn’t say anything, and that felt like a reproof.

On our walk home, we passed more ordinary, happy people with easy, uncomplicated lives, or at least that’s the way they seemed—a jogger with a red baseball cap, a lady with a baby in a front pack and a collie on a leash, and a couple about our age, taking a walk like we were. They were on the other side of the street, so we gave each other half waves and swift smiles.

The man raised his chin, and I thought he’d probably say Hey instead of Hi. The woman had wildly curly red hair, and she smiled at me like we were in on a secret.

I couldn’t smile back.

There were secrets, I thought, as Michael unlocked our front door. Secrets inside every house. Not the kind you could see through a window.

The next morning I woke to the movement of the bed, the disruption of the covers, and drowsed through the sounds of Michael showering. I could stay in bed all day. No one would miss me or pity me or say, “Have you seen Kacy?” But yesterday, I’d started to succumb to that siren song.

I’d gotten back under the covers and lost half a day, and it had only made things worse.

Once Michael’s off to work, you’ll have nine hours to huddle under your blanket fort. There’s no reason to get up. There’s nothing out there for you.