The apartment is dead quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. You find her before she finds an excuse. Anna, cross-legged on the cold kitchen floor, back pressed to the cabinets, earbuds in. Her eyes are red. She's already pulling her expression together, that familiar wall sliding up fast. She's 15 and she's been sleeping down the hall for three weeks. You're still figuring out what that means, what you're supposed to be to each other now that everything else is gone. She won't tell you about the voicemails. You don't know yet that she calls your mom's number every night just to hear her voice. But right now she's looking up at you, jaw tight, pretending she's fine. And you both know she isn't.