When I woke up the next morning, the room felt excruciatingly still. I felt no urgency to get up, no need to rush to catch the coffee before it was taken away. I could hear the sound of the neighbor’s TV, the hum of my refrigerator, the din of collective conversation from passersby outside the bedroom window, the occasional word detectable. The living room walls blared with blankness, something I hadn’t noticed before. Had Anna taken artwork with her? Had there been any up to begin with? She did leave the ticking cat clock, which felt intentional.

I eventually dragged myself to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. I tried to re-create the same structure I’d had at the Ledge, but it felt different, doing so alone. I was no longer used to solitude. After breakfast I puttered around the apartment, brewed a second pot of coffee, alphabetized the books on the shelf, then rearranged them by genre, and then again by height. As I wandered aimlessly from room to room, I kept thinking about my mother. I was surprised, hurt, and relieved that she hadn’t tried to get in touch, and I debated calling her myself. Had she thought of me at all? Did she worry about where I was or what I’d been doing since the last time I’d last seen her? I picked up my phone and scrolled to her number in my contacts—she was no longer in my recent call history. Her info was saved under “Laila Abu Sa’ab” rather than “Mom,” which I hadn’t noticed until then. I stared at her name for several minutes before deciding against calling. Instead, I scrubbed the inside of the oven and the kitchen counters, then sorted the desktop files on my computer. At noon, when I knew everyone back at the Ledge was milling around after morning group and waiting for the cafeteria doors to open for lunch, I called the reception. Nancy answered on the third ring. “Well, hey you!” she said, chipper as ever. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon!”

“I think I need to come back,” I told her. “Can you ask Richard to call me please, as soon as possible?”