Cover Story

Somebody texted me Tuesday.

*Still in touch with them?* I said no.

Which is true. But the answer came fast—

the way answers do when they know

they've been used before. Fourteen.

The hallway. My parent at the door.

*Where were you?* And I named a place

I hadn't been. Nothing more.

Clean. Easy. My parent nodded—

already half-turned. Already fine.

The door frame. The shoulder. Gone.

The whole thing took less time

than it should have. I remember

the other room, how it stayed still.

Someone in there heard everything.

Didn't say a word. They will

let you do it, people like that.

Or maybe they needed me to.

Either way. The nod. The turn.

The hallway after, just us two—

me and the lie, standing there.

I was good at it. I was fourteen.

I'm still good at it.

Somebody nods. I know what that means.