Emily didn't ask.
That was the thing about Emily—she never asked for the story before she had the sense of how much you could tell. She just showed up with a box of takeout and an opinion about whatever was on TV and the particular gift of knowing when a person needed noise and when they needed quiet.
That first week, she left a plate of toast outside the guest-room door every morning and took it away without comment when Mia didn't eat it. She went to work at eight and came back at seven and never once sat across from Mia with that particular wide-eyed look that meant please explain in detail the thing I am already imagining.
Mia lay on the pull-out couch and watched the afternoon light make rectangles on the wall and thought about nothing as hard as she could.
Don't think about Free.
