Sara didn’t leave the ladies’ lounge all night, even after most of the other guests got bored of watching The Simpsons and decided to go off to their beds. She sat curled up on the biggest armchair in the room, a rather ratty thing donated by a church lady with the most atrocious paisley patterned upholstery imaginable.

Jeremy visited her a few times that evening: once to serve the ladies their snack (two Mrs. Fields cookies each and some Kool-Aid), and once to bring the girl a blanket. She accepted it mutely, her pale green eyes downcast, her thin hand shaking. “Do you want me to bring you something else? A pillow, a book?” Jeremy asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Sara said. She pulled the blanket tightly around her shoulders, curling up under the cheap acrylic fabric. “You should go to sleep now.”

“So should you, it’s been a long day.”

Sara didn’t answer.

“You know, when I’ve had a long day, I like to talk about it,” Jeremy went on. “I find it helps.”

“You really suck at this,” Sara said, rolling her eyes.