Page 66 of Severance

I return the phone to my pocket and look down at my sneakers, trying to think of an explanation for why Mikah hasn’t responded to any of my messages. Things seemed okay the morning after the movie night. I slept on his couch and he made me coffee before I left. But three days later, we’re back to square one where he ignores me until the invisible switch in his brain flips and he decides he wants to hang out, and I don’t know if I can take it anymore.

“Alana?” I hear my name called.

“C.J.” The man puts on a small smile and moves closer. “C.J. Barnes.” There’s a business card in his hand. “We met a couple of weeks ago. At the car wash.”

I blink away the mist in my eyes and sift through my foggy memories.

“I know this is very difficult for you.” He steps forward, his head blocking the sun. “But I was hoping you’d be open to speaking to me.”

“Have you been following me all this time?” I ask, studying his face. He doesn’t look like a shooter. He doesn’t look like he could harm a fly. Somehow, he doesn’t look like a reporter either. He looks more like a failed writer turned college professor.

“It’s my job,” C.J. explains, shoving his card at me. “Your parents wouldn’t take my calls.”

Shock grips me. “You called my parents?”

“Look”—he clears his throat—“I know you must hate me for ambushing you and Mikah Bennett at the car wash, but this story I’m working on is important. Victims’ voices need to be heard too.”

“We’re not victims,” I say, staring at his business card.We’re fucked up products of a fucked up society.

“Survivors,” he corrects himself, but I’m already seriously doubting his people skills and his qualifications.

“Why should I talk to you?” I ask, taking his card.

“Because Dakota Bennett deserves a story more than Joseph Miller does.”

His words storm through me like a hurricane. Part of me wants to say yes, but the rest of me—the portion that’s so attached to Mikah—understands it’s not my place to decide what Dakota deserves. He has a family and if they don’t want his name in the newspapers and online, I don’t have the right to talk about him either.

C.J. draws a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his jacket and when he offers me one, I take it.

“Think about it, Alana,” he says, handing me his lighter.

“Have you had anyone else come forward?”

“A couple of people.” He nods.

I break eye contact with him and stare at the sea of posters being held in the air and trembling against the blue backdrop of the Oregon sky. Six months ago, my biggest problem was figuring out how to tell my parents about Dakota. But now, it all seems so trivial.

I light my cigarette and inhale the thick smoke into my lungs. Nicotine hits me instantly and flows through my veins like fresh blood, filling me with a high calm. I know it’ll last for only a few minutes, but a few minutes is better than nothing.

“Can you write Wikipedia page content?” I ask, pushing the smoke out.

C.J. nods again.

“Can I have another one?” I motion at my cigarette.

“Sure.” He hands me the pack and the lighter. “Keep it.”

“Thanks.”

“Call me when you’re ready.” C.J. shows me a sympathetic smile and steps back to leave.

“I’m not making any promises.”

He raises his hand to wave goodbye and disappears into the crowd.

* * *

I put in my earbuds and set my phone and an empty cup next to me on the bench. Both of my parents are still at work and I don’t believe they’ll somehow find out I’m about to smoke a cigarette in our backyard unless they’ve installed security cameras to spy on me.

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