Page 99 of Severance

My heart begins to pound. “Do you feel guilty?”

“Sometimes. Do you?”

“Yes. I don’t understand why I’m alive and Dakota isn’t.”

I don’t understand why God—if he even exists—did this. He ripped out twenty-four lives like they were unwanted weeds polluting a potato field.

“Come here.” Jess leans forward and throws her hands around my neck to pull me into a hug. “Go home and get some sleep. We can talk about it tomorrow if you want.”

Our embrace is long and reminds me of a time when things were simple. Before The Crystal Room. Before Dakota.

We say our goodbyes and Jess hurries back inside.

After a few long minutes of chasing my thoughts, I text Mikah. I need closure.

Tell me you didn’t mean what you said about your brother.

Then I drive home.

My parents are fast asleep when I stumble into the house. They haven’t been waiting up for me lately like they used to. Mostly because of the baking blog project, not because of any newly-found trust in me and my actions.

My soaked shoes leave a wet trail all across the living room and on the stairs as I make my way up to my room. I don’t remember changing into my pajamas, but I do remember looking for Dakota’s leather jacket in my closet. I remember falling asleep with it and my phone in my hand and waking up to an empty screen hours later.

My message to Mikah is still unread when I finally return to my senses at around two in the afternoon. My head is less fuzzy, and although my body’s sore, at least it feels like my own.

A rush of panic hits me when I realize my shift at the bakery is about to begin. I hurry downstairs to start a fresh pot of coffee, and then I take a quick shower and dress in my work clothes. My Prius is still in our driveway with the dry mud splatters around its bumper and hood, but the sky has cleared a little and the rain has stopped.

I don’t remember much of my shift at the bakery. It’s just another workday full of complaints, screaming kids, and parents ready to have a nervous breakdown. By the time we close up, my head’s a mess. Mikah hasn’t bothered to read my text and the taste of defeat is beyond bitter. When I get in my car, I fish out the business card C.J. Barnes gave me a few weeks ago and dial his number.

“This is Alana Novak,” I say in a shaky voice. “Are you still working on the story about Dakota Bennett?”

“Still am,” he responds.

“I don’t mind meeting.”

“Sounds great. How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

26. Before

My parents never question where I’m going if they see me taking my camera and my folder with printouts from Pinterest. It’s almost always a sign I’m headed to Jess’s to bake something for my blog, which is considered a non-threatening activity.

Today, my father looks puzzled when instead of Jess’s Nissan, there’s a black 1969 Mustang waiting for me in the driveway. The blizzard last night added at least an inch or two of snow to the existing layer, turning our street into an all-white crystal realm, and Dakota’s car is like a UFO that’s landed in front of our house—not fitting in with this quiet, fantasy-like neighborhood. Its polished-to-perfection black body glimmers in the bright afternoon sunlight that’s rare for this time of year, right outside our living room window.

My mother’s in the kitchen, still in her church dress, unloading the dishwasher. The clanking of pots and silverware and the hum of the radio follows me to the front door.

“I’m going to Dakota’s,” I inform them, checking my bag again to make sure I have my notebook with the new recipes. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”

My father straightens in his recliner and raises an eyebrow in question. Apparently, the talk we had on Thursday morning didn’t make much of a difference.

“He’s going to help me with my blog post,” I say. “I’m trying six different frostings.”

“What about dinner? Your mother’s making a casserole.”

“I’m fine, Dad. I’ve had mom’s casserole a thousand times before.” I force a smile. My mother’s an amazing cook, but I already forfeited my sleep in order to make my parents happy by going to church with them. Even though getting up at eight in the morning after working a third shift isn’t fun at all.

The sound of the doorbell rumbles through the downstairs.

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