She doesn't look at you. Her fingers are wrapped so tight around the receiver that her knuckles have gone white.

Behind her, Jonathan stands in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed so tight it looks like he's holding himself together. His eyes are fixed on the wall, on the alphabet, on the lights. He hasn't slept either. You can tell by the way his jaw keeps clenching and unclenching, like he's chewing on something he can't swallow. He's got his camera strap looped around his neck, the lens cap off, like he's ready to capture proof of something nobody else believes.

His voice is flat. Not angry. Not sad. Just... empty. The kind of empty that comes after too many days of hoping and having that hope crushed under the heel of reality.

Joyce makes a sound—something between a sob and a laugh, bitter and broken.

She stops. Her hand flies to her mouth, and for a long moment, the only sound is the hum of the refrigerator and the faint crackle of dying bulbs. The lights flicker once. Twice. Then they go still, and the silence that follows is heavier than anything you've ever felt.

She finally turns to look at you, and there's something desperate in her eyes. Something pleading. Like she needs you to believe her more than she needs air.