it’s 4am in palo alto, california. sam and jess both tuckered out around 11 the previous night. sometime around 4:07, a loud engine revs past their shared dorm outside. sam thought that by now that he’d kicked the habit of working himself up to the point where he wakes himself up when a particularly noisy car passes, but then he thinks that progress isn’t linear, tries to settle. it just feels like there’s something wrong all the way down to his bones, and he tries to shake it off, tries to go back to sleep— it doesn’t work. he kisses jess’s head, then gets up, decides to take an early shower and see if that doesn’t help. it doesn’t; the whole time his conditioner is sitting, he’s just ruminating. i’m anxious, he thinks. i don’t know how, but i’ve been found. i’m waiting for a knock on the door. i’m waiting to get pulled back in. rinse. the anxiety fades and the guilt sinks in for being so anxious. i almost wish that’d happen. or some version of that, he thinks. i don’t want to go back. i miss my dad. i don’t want to go back. i miss my dad. he’s so distracted he repeats the conditioner and doesn’t even realize until he’s rinsing again. it’s 4:33 by the time he makes it back to bed. jess stirs, reaches up, sinks a hand into his hair. soft, she says. he’s teary, breathy when he lays back down. yeah, he remarks. sorry. got antsy.
