The words come too fast, surprising both of us.
She looks embarrassed by them.
I understand, though.
Sometimes being alone after the running stops is worse than running.
“I can turn around,” I offer.
She nods.
So I stand and face the door while she changes behind me. Fabric rustles. A zipper lowers. She inhales sharply once, and I almost turn, but I stop myself.
Permission matters.
The hallway floor creaks.
Derby’s voice comes low through the door. “Everything okay?”
Amelia freezes.
“It’s fine,” I answer before she has to. “Stop hovering.”
“I ain’t hovering.”
“You are guarding anxiously.”
“I guard mean.”
“You guard loud.”
He mutters something I choose not to hear.
Behind me, Amelia lets out a tiny breath that might be amusement. “Does he always argue with you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you always win?”
“Yes.”
Derby says through the door, “I heard that.”
“You were meant to,” I tell him.
Amelia changes the rest of the way in silence. When she speaks again, her voice is small. “Okay.”
I turn.
My pajama pants are indeed too short, hitting her way above the calves. Where I’m shorter than everyone, Amelia is tall as a runway model. Still, the shirt hangs loose on her shoulders. She’s as fit as a model too. Without the dusty clothes, she looks both safer and more exposed. There is a yellowing bruise above one hip where the shirt rides up for a second before she pulls it down. Another along her upper arm.
I see them.
She sees me see them.
The room goes quiet in a painful way.
“He didn’t do all of them,” she says.