THE BOX
She recovered quickly.
That was the thing about Eleanor — whatever cracked in her in that moment of saying my name with fear underneath it sealed itself back up within seconds. I watched it happen. The hands that had been shaking stilled themselves. The expression that had broken through the composure retreated behind it. She took one breath — controlled, deliberate, the breath of someone reassembling themselves from the inside out — and by the time she exhaled she was Eleanor again.
The pale eyes were back.
The stillness was back.
Only her hands gave her away — still clasped in front of her, still slightly too tight, the knuckles carrying a tension the rest of her had managed to conceal.
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she said, "Sit down."
Eleanor sat across from
