Page 42 of Severance

Mikah tosses his cigarette out the window. “I don’t want you saying his name.”

“Do you want me saying Dakota’s name?” Tears pool in my eyes.

“We had a deal. I can’t hang out with you if you’re going to bring my brother into this every time we see each other.”

It sounds weird coming out of his mouth. The seeing each other part.

“Why?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond.

Frustration simmers beneath my skin. “Why, Mikah?” I can’t stand this secrecy anymore. Trying to figure out the way his brain works is like trying to solve an ancient riddle, but at the same time, he’s created some sort of connection between us. We hang out, we talk, we discuss Bram Stoker’s writing. It makes no sense why he wouldn’t talk about his brother.

Mikah dodges my question. “I was going to stop by a friend’s house. You wanna tag along?”

“Yeah. Sure.” I nervously wipe my tears with the heel of my left hand.

“You’re going to burn my car.” Mikah grabs the cigarette from me. “Tissues are in there.” He motions at the glove compartment.

I turn up the music, flip the sun visor to get to the mirror, and clean up my face.

* * *

“Whose house is this?” I ask, staring up at the property hiding behind a thick line of trees and untrimmed bushes.

“A friend of mine,” Mikah mutters as we get out of the truck.

I’m wearing his Black Sabbath hoodie that he fished out from the back seat, and I know it’s not making me look like any less of a wreck, but the thought of going home sends shivers down my spine. It’s both funny and sad that I would rather have strangers laugh at my ridiculous outfit than be anywhere near my father right now.

My mind craves something different. A change of scenery maybe. A break from the dull numbness my life has become.

I’m glad my cell phone isn’t with me so that I don’t have to stress over the endless calls from my parents. We’ve already established I’m a shitty daughter. Listening to their lectures is not going to change that fact.

“Are you good?” Mikah asks, glancing at me over his shoulder as we walk up to the house.

My anxiety kicks in at the sound of loud music inside.

“Yeah.” I nod, thrusting my fists into the pockets of his hoodie. They’re huge, probably big enough to fit a watermelon, which makes me feel even smaller than I already am next to Mikah.

“You sure?” He rings the doorbell several times as his gaze lingers on me.

Dread gushes through me like blood from an open carotid artery. “Yeah. I’m fine,” I lie.

“All right.” He breaks eye contact and stares at his phone.

The minute the door opens, wild laughter wrapped in the smell of burnt pizza and weed drifts from inside. The guy meeting us has a buzz cut, a lot of tats, and a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t strike me as someone Mikah would be friends with.

“What’s up, Bennett?” He looks from Mikah to me. Then he and Mikah perform one of those strange manly greetings that consists of a bunch of different hand movements that seem rehearsed, and I wonder how long it took them to learn all that stuff.

Mikah turns to me and makes a brief introduction. “Alana. Eddie.”

“Hey, how are you doing?” Eddie steps to the side to let us in, the toothpick traveling from one side of his mouth to the other. His eyes slide from my face to my chest, which makes me wonder if he only allows girls who meet certain criteria into his house.

“Hey.” I don’t bother to smile—he doesn’t seem like he cares much about manners.

My goal right now is not to freak out on his porch, because I’m not sure I want to go in. There are too many people inside.

“Jackson upstairs?” Mikah asks, ushering me into the house.

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