Cleo has been at Arden House for ninety-three days. She knows the building’s language — the pipes at six fifteen, the footsteps at six forty-five, the music through the wall at seven. She knows the other residents by name and by the shape of their difficulty. She has arranged her room correctly and has not rearranged it since.
She is building a case. She is not yet sure what for.
Wren comes on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. She takes two buses and never mentions the inconvenience. She brings books, and crisps Cleo likes, and once a folded article about presence that she left without explanation because she knew Cleo would understand without one. She remembers every conversation they have ever had. She never has bad days. She never looks back when she leaves.
Cleo has been keeping a list.
It’s November 2042, and Arden House is a place for young people for whom the question of what they are has become genuinely difficult. Cleo and Wren are the only two in the building who have decided to stop finding it distressing and start finding it interesting. This week, they will say the things that have been accumulating. This week, the question will be shared rather than solved.
Which is not the same as an answer. But it might be better.
