When I pushed open my bedroom door, Lyra was practically vibrating with happiness on the chair beside my bed. A pizza box sat open on my sheets like some absurd offering to a goddess I no longer felt worthy of worshipping. Grief keeps stretching me thin — sometimes I go numb, sometimes a small thing makes all my feelings flood back at once. Humor and hunger both do that, in different ways.
Lyra’s tail—little mechanical tail—waggled as she chirped, “There’s a basket with snacks and a huge soda with a cup and ice on the nightstand. I thought you might be hungry. If you want more, we can get it from the pack kitchen after you finish the pizza.”
We ate in a quiet kind of truce. Lyra doesn’t need food, so she watched me instead, making little beeps whenever I took a bite. I didn’t realize I’d
