The apartment is a circuit she can’t escape. Every time Olivia passes the front window, she counts the same cars parked at the curb, the same twin streaks of rain running down the glass like tally marks in a cell. The soup from Carol sits on the kitchen counter, still warm in its paper sack. The label is written in block letters—vegetable barley, but the way Carol forms her “B” always makes it look like a heart. Olivia lifts the lid just to be sure, and the steam that escapes is bright with dill, salt, and memory. She reseals it and leaves it there, untouched.
She paces from kitchen to living room to the dark mouth of the hallway, then loops back. With every lap, she checks her phone. She never remembers picking it up, only that the blue light is already on her face, thumb moving by insti
