“I think you’re just like me,” I say to her, carefully watching how she reacts. “Oh, yeah?” It’s a challenge. She hasn’t run off. She isn’t fumbling for her phone to call the police. She is meeting my eyes and daring me to keep talking. “Yes. I think there’s something a little off about you. You hide it well—” I circle behind her, my chest brushing against her shoulder, “and you drift through life, but nothing feels real. Like it has any stakes.”
