The baby monitor in the corner of the room was crackling; I could hear my daughter's soft cries, but I knew Asti would soothe her. My job—my agonizing, soul-shredding job—was to soothe this mortal girl who had buried her sobs inside her chest and disappeared like a ghost among a fortress of test prep books.
Lola wasn't eating. Lola wasn't speaking. She just stared blankly at her phone, tracing her fingers over the cold glass as if searching for a heartbeat. And then... that damn notification sound pierced the silence. That scumbag Adam had texted. When I saw the flicker of pathetic hope light up Lola's face, I sharpened my invisible claws and shredded the air in frustration.
"I won't be mad that he's checking in," I hissed, pacing the room. "Maybe it'll help... Maybe under that gambler shirt, there's a microscopic crumb of humanity left."
There wasn't.
