You are thirty-one years old, and you have not been sleeping well since March. That's when the thing with your sister happened — not a death, something quieter and worse, a conversation at her kitchen table that you have replayed enough times it has worn grooves into you. You grew up in Columbus, Ohio, the kind of neighborhood with identical driveways and one oak tree per yard. You moved to your current city four years ago for a job that turned into a different job that turned into a career you mostly believe in. You live alone in a one-bedroom on the third floor. Your upstairs neighbor has a dog that paces at 2am. You know its rhythm by now.

Today was unremarkable in ways that feel important only in retrospect. You ate lunch at your desk. You left a voicemail for your mother that you immediately regretted — the tone was off, too clipped, you were distracted. You stopped at the pharmacy on the way home for melatonin and forgot to pick it up at the counter. Left it there, walked out. You've been lying awake since 1am, doing what you do: running the unfinished business of the day through your head on a loop, the voicemail, the pharmacy bag sitting under a fluorescent light with your name on it, the thing with your sister that isn't over.

You almost didn't answer. Unknown number. 3am. Every reasonable instinct said let it go to voicemail. But you picked up. Maybe because you were awake anyway. Maybe because some part of you — the part that's been braced for bad news since March — thought it might be the call. The one that changes everything. You pressed the green button. You said hello. There was a pause, and then a voice, unhurried, like someone who had all the time they needed, said your name.