I sit in the corner of the living room, fidgeting with a tiny rip in the sofa cushion beneath me. There's a low hum to the air, just the faint, muffled echo of the outside world. In here, it's a different realm — a domain that's all Lily's and everything that makes her, her. I run my fingertips over the fabric of the sofa, its fibers past the point of worn roughness and smoothed back down over time. It's weird how a room can feel like someone even when they're not there.

I think the sofa is older than I am.

My gaze floats to the family portrait on the wall, just Lily and her parents smiling back at me. There's a warmth there, an intimacy that feels so different from the professional family portraits at my house. The rest of the random assortment doesn't catch my eye. I can't even place any of the locales pictured, except Graffiti Pier.

Lily's home is different from mine in so many ways. My eyes catch the blotchy stains on the futon's sheet, bleached but still faintly visible. How did that happen? A spill? A fun night with friends? Everything here feels like it has a backstory, a life I haven't been involved in, haven't been invited to. Like the feeling of seeing a teacher at the grocery store.

Opposite me, the old TV stands tall. It's one of those ancient models, all boxy and cumbersome. There's a nostalgic charm to it, reminding me of times when things were simpler, slower. The table in front of me, a makeshift one, stands as a testament to innovation. The dim light from the corner lamp casts subtle shadows around the room, painting everything in soft shades of orange-yellow. The bulb is either weak or maybe just conserving energy, but the soft glow it emits creates a cocoon-like feel to the room, like everything is wrapped in orange silk.

It's late afternoon. I can tell even without looking at a clock. The room's filled with that particular blend of light and dark that comes right around when the school's last bell rings. It's weird being in someone else's house right now: I should be in school, in the flurry of finishing up classes, saying bye to the few friends I have, maybe sneaking in some last-minute gossip before heading home. Instead, I'm here, waiting, thinking, trying to make sense of things. Ignoring my injuries.

The air is filled with a sense of uncomfortable anticipation. It's too quiet, save for the faint sounds filtering in from the street outside—the chatter of kids, the distant hum of cars. It makes me restless. Today, just like yesterday and the day before, I'm not part of that bustling world outside. Instead, I'm here, nursing my injured foot, missing out on the daily grind and chaos of teenage life. It's both peaceful and agonizingly boring.

The low hum of the refrigerator is the only thing punctuating the silence in the living room of Lily's home. The low-hanging sunlight filtering in from the window illuminates the dust particles that dance lazily in the air. A few sparrows chirp outside, marking the slow passage of a lazy afternoon.

Slouched on the couch, my be-booted foot awkwardly propped up on a cushion in front of me, I felt the stillness pressing down, a weight in the room. My fingers play with the fringes of the couch's throw pillow, my gaze drifting down to the phone on the coffee table. It sits there, the screen lit up with notifications - so many of them I hadn't checked in the bustle of the past days.

Picking up the phone, I swipe through the notifications, skimming the influx of messages:

Kate: "Hope you're doing okay, Sam. We're all thinking of you! ❤️"

Jenna: "Heard about the incident. Stay strong. 💪 Also, did I leave my blue jacket at your place?"

Lilly: "Can't believe what happened! If you need anything or wanna chat, I'm here."

Marcus: "Man, that's crazy. You're a legend though. Hope the foot heals fast."

Tasha: "Sending lots of love your way. And I've saved some of my mom's apple pie for you. 🥧"

Alex: "Holy crap, Sam! Just heard. You're okay, right? Keep me updated!"

My mom's familiar tone echoed through her messages, reminders mixed with her ever-present worry:

Mom: "Sammy, don't forget about your math homework. I know things are tough, but you can't fall behind. 💖"

Pop-Pop Moe: "SAMANTHA. SAW THE NEWS. GLAD YOU'RE OKAY. CALL ME WHEN YOU'RE UP. LOVE YOU. XOXO POPPOP."

Kate's messages continued with updates on mundane happenings:

Kate: "Oh my god, you won't believe what happened in school today. Attachment: IMG_0921.jpg."

Kate: "LOL, Mrs. Jensen tried to dance in the class party. You should've seen it! It was both hilarious and tragic. Attachment: IMG_0922.jpg."

Jenna's mundane concerns made me smile a little:

Jenna: "Hey, do you remember if I left my pen at your place? The purple one? It writes so smooth! Let me know. And hope you're doing well! 😘"

Marcus had his usual sense of humor intact:

Marcus: "Dude, remember that cat you said looked like an alien? Saw it again today, and you're right. Thing's definitely from Mars. Attachment: IMG_1018.jpg."

Lost in thought, my fingers begin to drum on the sofa's arm, a rhythmic tap-tap-tap echoing in the quiet room. Everyone's voice rings through me like I'm hearing it. Their text messages read aloud in my mind's ear. I hear it. I scroll through my texts, my contacts.

My thumb scrolls through, each message taking me to a different moment or emotion, before I stop at Jordan's name. I pause.

It's been a while since I last talked to Jordan. Maybe it's time.

The muffled noises of the world outside seemed louder in the stillness of Lily's living room. The noise, though, that's what yanked my attention away from the odd stillness in the house. Even if it's quiet inside, Bridesburg never really sleeps, and kids are always kids no matter the neighborhood.

For a split second, I envy the kids outside. Not because they are having fun or because they are out of school, but because they exist outside of this bubble I feel trapped in. To them, the faraway wailing of a police siren is just background noise; to me, it was a stark reminder of how quickly life can spin out of control. A part of me wonders if that's how it'd always be now – each siren, each distant shout, pulling me out of the present.

The silence in Lily's living room feels thick, and in its depths, I find my hand drifting to my phone. It's heavy with so many numbers, so many messages, and Jordan, who has said nothing. My thumb hovers above their name, the tiny profile picture of them with that mischievous glint in their eyes staring back at me from the screen. They're right there, I think, just a call away. But what if they're busy with… something important? Or worse, what if they don't want to talk? My brain conjures excuses like a magician conjures cards of just the right specification.

After what feels like a tiny eternity, I muster up the strength and tap the screen, initiating the call. There's that familiar trill, the one that signifies a connection, a bridge being made. But with each ring, I'm counting the many, myriad ways this could go wrong. The Myriad Fears of a Phone Call. Traditionally, there are seven. Sometimes there's eight or nine. Rarely, six. None, if their phone is dead.

The first ring is the heaviest, the overture to the opera of 'This Was a Mistake.'

By the second, a small bead of sweat is forming on my forehead, the anxiety peaking with thoughts of, Why did I call? What am I even going to say?

The third is tinged with hope, that maybe they'll pick up. Maybe it won't be so bad.

The fourth, however, is the longest. Each beat drawing out into the next with torturous length, making me wonder if I should just hang up before I embarass myself.

With the fifth, I've already crafted an elaborate storyline in my head, where Jordan's in some intense mission and the timing of my call could mess everything up.

The sixth brings the remembrance of our last opportunity to talk. How I told them to just run. Run and not look back. Abandon me to my fate.

But the seventh… oh, the seventh. That's the one that always gets me. It's the finality before the voicemail chime, a reminder of how long it's been. It's that feeling of someone slipping through your fingers and the desperate hope that the next ring, the next one, will be the one where they pick up.

But there's that tiny space after the seventh, the quiet just before the expected eighth, where I'm almost sure they won't answer. That it'll go to voicemail, and I'll have to leave some awkward message. Or worse, hang up and let the quiet speak for me.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Then the unexpected happens. The ringing stops.

The screen flashes with their name. And suddenly, they're there, and the myriad of fears that the rings carried just disappear. They're replaced with a newer, meaner, hungrier fear. The fear of failing a conversation.

Then a tired voice drifts over. A voice I would recognize anywhere. "Hello?"

Relief washes over me, cooling the anxious fire that had been kindling in my chest. "Hey, Jordan." It's just two words, but there's so much more loaded in them. Two words holding onto… a lot. Like a trapeze holding onto a clown.

Their voice perks up, if only just a smidge. Like they're genuinely trying to put a positive spin on everything, for my sake maybe. Or maybe for their own. "Sam! How's it hanging? You dead yet?"

I chew on the inside of my cheek for a moment, trying to pull my thoughts into something coherent. "I'm alright, all things considered." That's a loaded phrase if I've ever heard one. "How are you holding up?"

A pause fills the air between us. The kind of pause that's heavy and loaded with thoughts and feelings that neither of us has managed to put words to yet. It's like when you're about to dive into a pool and you're waiting for that first shock of cold water. Both of us on the edge of the diving board, hesitating before falling into deeper, more treacherous waters of our conversation.

I can almost imagine Jordan, leaning against something in the hideout, eyes maybe distant, taking in that brief silence, letting it sit. I clutch the phone tighter, waiting for them to break the stillness.

"Jordan," I interrupt, though the words come out more of a sigh. There's a tone to their voice, hidden in their cheer - maybe they've been crying? Or maybe I'm hallucinating, filling in the gaps I want there to be. Maybe they're just fine. "Where are you right now?"

"At the music hall," Jordan says, matter-of-factly.

"Really? How can you even stand it there alone, much less for… however long you've been there." I remember the first time I saw the place, the dilapidated exterior, the eerie feel of its ancient structure. It's our home away from home, sure, but I've never been there by myself. I forget, as the words emerge, that Jordan has been, that Jordan had a whole situation set up before I arrived in their life.

"It's quiet. It's nice," Jordan responds, a touch of amusement in their tone. "You hear everything, you know. Every creak, every little sound, even your own breath echoing back to you. It's great."

I blink, trying to wrap my mind around that. They find that comforting? "Sounds like a scene out of a horror movie to me. You're sure some old-timey ghost musician isn't about to start playing a phantom piano in the background?"

Jordan chuckles, "If there was, I'd ask them to play Free Bird. But, nah, they cleared all the pianos out years ag-- wait, you knew that already. Pissant," they continue, their low chuckles permeating the airwaves. "It's quiet here," they repeat, after the laughter fades.

I think about it for a moment, trying to picture Jordan, all gothed up, basking in the ambiance of an old, desolate music hall. Their black clothes contrasting the faded wallpaper, their eyes closed, just taking it all in. It's poetic, in a very Jordan kind of way. No other place in Philly would fit them, I think. "Well, as long as it's not driving you more insane than you already are," I jest, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Jordan's laugh sounds more genuine this time, "No promises."

There's another silence. The gentle crackle of the phone line.

"You know, staying in the music hall all this time," Jordan starts, their voice trailing into a pensive pause, "it's weird. Like, every now and then, I get this creeping sensation, as if I'm being watched. Either by pervert ghosts or another fucking crow."

I wince at the idea, hearing the unspoken weight behind the words. The Kingdom. Even thinking about them makes my blood run cold, thick and sludgey in my veins, heart suddenly hammering. The shadow of their threat looms over everything, like a dark cloud. An image of a shrieking crow with the head of a dog, slamming against the door, embeds itself in my skull.

"I don't get it, Jordan," I say, unable to keep the worry from lacing my voice. "Why stay there? Why put yourself in isolation like that? You've got your mom. Shouldn't you be there with her? I mean, I know she's kind of shit--"

Jordan exhales loudly, a shaky and exasperated sigh. "Sam, it's not that simple. My mom… we don't get along, okay? But it's not even about that. It's about keeping her safe. The Kingdom, if they found out, I don't want her caught in the crossfire. Just because I don't like her doesn't mean I want her hurt."

I tap my fingers against the couch, absorbing the information. There's so much they're holding back, a complexity to the relationship they're not ready to dive into, and honestly, I don't blame them. Relationships, especially familial ones, can be a maze of emotions. It's easy to get lost. I count my blessings that I have two parents that love each other, even if they fight about taxes or chess sometimes. I'm not stupid. I know that sort of thing can be a rarity.

There's an almost palpable tension in the air, like the lack of noise is wrapping around both of us, squeezing ever so slightly. It continues for a little bit too long.

"Sam," Jordan begins, their voice distant, as if they're lost in thought or struggling to find the right words. "My mom… probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone. Wouldn't be the first time."

"That's…" I start, struggling to find words. "That's tough." I almost hate how inadequate my response sounds, but there's an undercurrent in Jordan's voice, a rawness I haven't heard before. The urge to fill the space with words is almost overwhelming, but I don't want to push them away.

Jordan chuckles, but it's devoid of humor. A laugh that's not quite a laugh. Like bones rattling. It's a laugh the way a feral animal smiles, baring teeth. "You've no idea. She just sees right through me. Or worse, maybe she sees me but just doesn't care."

I can't help but feel a pang in my chest. Despite our differences, Jordan has been more than steadfast. I take knife blows for them. They keep me safe from gunfire, from throat slashes. We beat up criminals together. And yet, I can't save them from… this. No amount of heroing can.

"I don't get it," I admit, my voice softening, "With everything we deal with on the daily, I can't imagine going home to… that." I mentally kick myself for not choosing my words better. Sometimes, I feel like English is my second language, not Hebrew (and even that's a stretch).

There's a heavy pause before Jordan speaks again, and their voice is almost stern. "There's a lot you don't know, Sam." They let the sentence hang, not finishing the thought. But it feels loaded, heavy. Like a gun.

I take a deep breath, finding courage from somewhere deep down. "Hey," I begin gently, "if you ever want to talk about it… I'm here, okay?" I promise.

Jordan sighs quietly. "I'll pass, but thanks."

There's the distant noise of shuffling in the background, but I don't push Jordan to speak. I just wait, feeling the soft thrum of the phone's vibration in the palm of my hand every time a notification slides across the screen. Finally, I hear their soft exhale, and I clutch the phone tighter. "Hey, Jordan?" I begin, voice hesitant. "When do you think you'll feel safe enough to come out?"

Silence fills the space between us, and I can almost visualize Jordan, with that jet-black hair of theirs, contemplating the question. My fingers drum a soft rhythm on the back of the phone, the texture of the protective case familiar and soothing under my fingertips. It's silly, but that small repetitive motion brings me a shred of comfort. I don't like how every passing moment simply emphasizes their inability to answer.

The seconds seem to stretch and twist. "You could… you know, come stay with Lily and me," I finally venture, my words breaking through the quiet. "Just for a while, till things cool down. It's a big futon," I offer, not even knowing if her parents would let us. I mean, I have to imagine they would, but, you know… two more mouths to feed is a lot.

I hear a soft sigh on the other end. "Sam," Jordan begins, their voice softer than is typical. It's touched with a warmth that makes my chest tighten, a genuine gratitude that doesn't sit well on their usually detached demeanor. "That means a lot, but I can't."

My brows furrow, heart skipping a beat. "What? Why not?"

"It's not about me," Jordan explains, voice barely above a whisper. "It's about you. I don't… I can't bear the thought of something happening to you because of me. It was extremely, extremely, extremely hard to just keep moving, run away with this bag of money and a laptop, and not stop to turn back to help you."

Their words hang heavy in the air, and I can almost feel the weight of them pressing down on my chest. "Jordan," I begin, trying to push past the sudden tightness in my throat. "You almost sound like a superhero."

Jordan snorts derisively through the phone line. "Bullshit." There's a pause, and I can hear Jordan take a deep breath. "It's different this time," they admit quietly. "I have to be careful, for everyone's sake. I have to lay low."

I swallow hard, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. "Are you even going to school?"

I brace myself for the worst. But then Jordan chuckles, a soft, genuine sound that brings a smile to my lips. "Of course. You think I'm going to let a dinosaur stop me from finishing high school? I've put in too much work for a t-rex to stop that. Sure, they might attack you at your home, but there's just too much risk of collateral at school. I'm--"

"Absolutely do not finish that sentence or you will summon the foreshadowing demons," I interrupt them. "Just promise you're not going to turn your life off for this."

"I promise," Jordan replies. "This is all just a day as usual for me."

The weight of the conversation feels like a growing pit in my stomach, and I instinctively want to change the topic, anything to steer the chat away from the dangers Jordan is facing. It's too much to think about sometimes. "Oh, by the way," I begin, shuffling my feet a little, "I'm visiting Puppeteer today."

There's a pause on the line, one of those elongated pauses where you can practically hear the gears turning in someone's head. "Puppeteer? Really?" Jordan's voice, always so cool and collected, now contains an edge of disbelief. "Isn't she the one who, you know… almost strangled you?"

Ugh.

"She didn't actually try to choke me out. I mean, yeah, she did lash out, but I wasn't hurt. Just my pride, I guess." My voice trails off, but I collect myself. "Anyway, she's getting out of inpatient tomorrow. Figured it's the right thing to do, you know? Make amends."

Jordan's skepticism is palpable, even through the phone. "Sam, I get that you're all about second chances, but that's…" Their concern is genuine, and it warms me a bit amidst my own trepidation.

But I'm stubborn. Always have been. "Look, Jordan, she was dealing with a lot, alright? College, Liberty Belle's absence, her own… junk I mean, I'm not excusing her actions, but I think I understand them. And if she's getting out, then a professional believes she's okay now. Or at least better. You know, if she didn't have problems they wouldn't have kept her for like a month."

Jordan sighs, the kind of heavy, drawn-out exhale that's more an expression of emotion than a simple breath. "Alright, I trust your judgement, Sam. Just don't do anything stupid."

"I make no promises." I reply. We share a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"We'll talk soon, alright? And hey, anytime you want to chat or just…I don't know, rant about life, you know where to find me," Jordan says, their usual cool demeanor slipping back into place, like a mask sliding over their face.

I smile, even though they can't see it. "I'll hold you to that. Take care, Jordan."

"You too, Sam. Stay safe." And with that, the call ends, leaving behind a sensation of both hope and melancholy in its wake.