Page 25 of Severance

“Looks good on you, church girl,” Mikah says, his gaze sliding over the jacket. “A little big, but you’re totally rocking it.”

“Thanks.” My fingers fumble with the lapel.

“You want to keep it?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s yours.”

“Thanks.” I feel like this is too much to ask, but I still do as I motion toward the ceiling. “What about the hummingbirds?”

“Our mom took them,” Mikah mutters.

We go back to the living room where he’s already set several boxes near the door. I’m still wearing Dakota’s jacket, and my coat and purse are sitting on top of the plastic container I put all my other things into.

The thought of going home sends a feeling of dread down my spine.

“I really don’t mind helping you,” I say meekly, the hard container pressed against my chest. “I promise I won’t say a word.”

Mikah’s face softens. “Sure. Can you take some of these boxes to my truck? Just the small ones.”

“Yeah. Should I leave mine here or put it in my car?”

“Whatever you want is fine. I’m going to get some clothes on. My keys are on the kitchen table.”

While Mikah’s getting ready, I carry my things to my car, and then I haul two more boxes from the apartment to his truck.

The drive to storage is mostly quiet, except for the music blaring from the speakers. It’s dark, sad, and unfamiliar, and I wonder what the name of the band is because I don’t believe Dakota ever played it for me. However, my mouth won’t open to articulate the question.

When we get to the unit, we stack everything up inside in grim silence. Mikah spends a good hour rearranging all of the boxes to make sure there’s enough room, and I mainly just watch him because he’s not that great with instructions. Occasionally, he asks me to hand him something, but that’s as far as our interaction goes.

* * *

The sun has gone down when we arrive back at the apartment. We get out of the truck and Mikah pats his pocket to find his cigarettes. He looks tired, his face devoid of any emotions. Sometimes I wonder how he can hide them so well. I know he feels as much as I do, if not more. He was there when it happened and he cried at Dakota’s funeral. But for the most part, he’s like a rock. Cold and unbreachable. And I want to know how he does it, how he manages to block out every little thing that terrifies me.

I’m trying to decide between leaving him alone or asking if he needs more help with packing when he holds out the pack of Marlboros.

“You want one?” His eyes slide to my face.

“Ummm…” I stare up at him. “Sure.” My fingers take them from him and pull out a single cigarette.

“You need instructions again?” he asks blandly.

“I think I can manage.”

He draws the lighter from his pocket and lights our cigarettes.

I take a careful drag of mine and let the smoke coat my mouth and throat little by little.

“Don’t waste my fucking cigarette, church girl,” Mikah says, inhaling deeply.

“I’m not,” I whisper.

He pushes the smoke out and it floats from his mouth in the shape of ragged circles.

“Is that the nickname you guys had for me?” I ask, looking at the red streaks of sunset splashing across the dimming sky.

“No.”

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