Chapter Four #3
But it’s not just a house. It’s the house where I grew up, the house where generations of old dogs have found comfort, the place where I never quite fit, where Mom and I fought, where Dad and I took turns kicking each other’s asses in Wingspan and Settlers of Catan.
In Camden’s absence, it’s too big, too quiet, too lonely for words.
I focus on picking something on the TV. I feel like this has become my whole life lately: trying to focus on one thing at a time so that I won’t think about the stuff I can’t control.
Camden returns with a bag full of food, stepping into the house without knocking, perfectly at ease in a place where I feel so alien. He sets the bag on the coffee table. After he sits, he catches my eye and gives me a crooked grin. “Oh, damn, I forgot to tell them no jizz.”
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
Again, his face heats up. “Oh, uh… the book. I was referencing the…”
I shake my head. “The book. Duh. Sorry, I’m a bit out of it.”
“It’s okay.” He hands me a fork. “What are we watching?”
I eat my dinner with all the enthusiasm of a robot. I have no idea what’s on the TV. Sometimes, I feel like all of my emotions overload my brain, and the whole system shuts down. I’ve lost hours over the last few days in this weird brain fog blackout scenario.
Camden puts our leftovers in the fridge. It’s early, but at some point, he’s going to leave, and I’ll be alone again. I don’t know if I can sleep. My dreams have been fretful and sweaty, assuming I’ve been lucky enough to sleep at all.
Instead of making his excuses, Camden heads down the hall and comes back with a pile of blankets. He lays one across both of our laps.
“We gonna keep watching this?” He nods to the TV.
I have no idea what’s happened so far—some old lady is solving murders in a seaside Scottish town, but that’s all I’ve processed. “You want to?”
“I like it.”
Good enough for me. I turn the show back on and settle back in.
I don’t know how it starts, but Camden and I drift toward each other. By the end of the next hour-long episode, I’m cuddled up beside him. It’s not fully dark, and I’ve barely done anything today, but my eyelids keep closing on their own.
I should call the hospital. Just to see how Dad’s doing. It’s been hours. Something could have changed.
But Camden’s warm, and he smells like pine soap. My eyes flutter shut.
I tell myself I’ll only rest my eyes, that I’ll call the hospital in five minutes. But Camden’s warmth seeps through the blanket, steady as a metronome, and for the first time since the crash, my body believes it’s safe enough to stop.
Within minutes, I’m asleep on his shoulder.
* * *
Pale morning light spills through the living room windows. For a few precious seconds, I don’t know where I am. My body’s heavy but my mind floats—no sirens, no fire, no hospital. Just warmth.
Then memory hits like gravity.
Mom. The crash. Dad’s hands bandaged to the elbow.
Camden shifts beside me. At some point in the night, we must have folded into each other; now our legs are tangled under the blanket, the scent of takeout clings to the air. I squeak and bolt upright so fast the couch betrays me, pitching me onto the floor.
“Hey.” Camden leans over the edge of the sofa, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. “You okay?”
“My leg fell asleep,” I mumble. My face is burning.
He grins, sleep-rough and gentle. “Not just your leg. You were out cold. Did you sleep okay?”
“Better than I have in a week.” I push to my feet, brushing off imaginary dust. “You make a pretty solid heated blanket.”
He checks his phone and frowns. “Viktor’s calling an off-season practice. Want me to skip it? You still need groceries, help setting things up—”
For a second, I almost say yes. But I can’t make him my life raft. Not after everything he’s already done. “No, go. I’ve got it covered.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
He nods slowly. “Leftovers are in the fridge. I’ll check in after practice.”
“Cool.” The word tastes flimsy. “Say hi to everyone for me.”
He lingers by the door like he’s not convinced, then finally steps out. The latch clicks behind him.
The house exhales, and so do I. The quiet rushes back in, thick and merciless.
It’s as bad as the first time. Maybe worse—because now I know what it feels like to wake up and not hurt.
“Jesus.” I flop back onto the couch and press my palms to my eyes. “Get it together, Dot. So you’re completely alone. So what?”
My bag, abandoned beside the pile of books, beeps. Mira’s synthetic voice comes through the canvas, muffled: “Are you forgetting something?”
“Oh!” I scramble up, pressing a swallow down my throat, and dig her out. Mira is my one constant, my digital ride-or-die. I can’t believe I left her zipped in a bag all night. I set her on the side table to charge; her little status light blinks like a patient heartbeat.
I’m in yesterday’s clothes, hair tangled, skin sticky. I should shower. I should start on the dreaded chores. I should be doing literally anything other than sitting here.
Instead, I do what I’m best at. I curl up in the spot Camden warmed last night, pull my knees to my chest, and start doomscrolling. The indentation his body left in the cushion is there, faint but unmistakable, and I sink into it like a bruise.
“How are you feeling today, Dot?” Mira asks.
“Eh.” My thumb flicks through an endless feed of other people’s lives.
“That is not a descriptive response. Would you like to talk about what’s going on?”
I sigh, slow and swollen. “No. I would not.”
“You used to talk to me.” Her voice is flat, but after years with Mira, I can hear the glitchy shadow of something like hurt.
“Not now. I need some space.”
Mira does not back off. “What are you looking for on TikTok? Perhaps I can help.”
“You can’t. I’m not looking for anything.” My thumb keeps moving anyway. Camden didn’t pester me this much. I already miss him, and he’s been gone all of ten minutes.
“Yes, you are,” Mira says, unbothered. “Or else you wouldn’t keep scrolling.”
“Fine.” My voice cracks. “Then I guess I’m looking for happiness or a distraction. You can’t help. I’ll know it when I find it.”
“May I recommend a video?”
I swallow my irritation. I’m not mad at Mira, I’m just in a bad mood. No need to take it out on the robot. “Sure.”
“Go to the Humane Society of Nevada account page.”
I do as she suggests. As soon as I see the thumbnail, I know which video she means. A goofy little Chinese Crested is flopped over on his back with his speckled belly exposed.
“Oh, he looks like Nudacris.” My dad’s first dog, the one that started it all, has become the stuff of family legend. There are about a million pictures of him loaded into the digital frame in Dad’s home office.
“Your search history includes frequent requests for images of Chinese Crested dogs,” Mira says. “I thought you might like to see this one.”
“That’s because nobody knows what they look like, so I always have to pull up photos.” I click open the video. The dog looks even goofier in motion.
Then I see the caption. I grip the phone tighter. “Oh, my God. They’re going to euthanize him.”
“I was not aware of that,” Mira says. “You should navigate away from this page for the sake of your mental health.”
“No.” I wave the screen in her direction, even though she doesn’t have eyes and is probably stalking my screen through some sort of creepy computer Bluetooth setup.
“Don’t you get it? This dog needs us. And Dad needs him.
” The house wouldn’t be so unbearably lonely with a dog around, and I know Dad would love him on sight.
“You may be experiencing mood swings due to grief,” Mira says. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. I’m going. Right now.” I look down at myself. “After a shower.”
“You should call the Humane Society first. This video already has over seven hundred likes.”
I click my tongue. “Siri never annoys me like this.”
I swear Mira sounds smug when she says, “Siri doesn’t know you like I do.”
“Fine. I’ll call, and you plan my itinerary and a packing list.” I pull up the Humane Society’s website.
I might be acting on impulse, but this is a sign.
I can’t replace what we’ve lost, but at least Dad will be able to come home to something small and wiggly and filled with unconditional love instead of a sad, sullen daughter who can’t manage her own feelings without an AI assistant.
The dog in the video flails his skinny legs like he’s swimming, tongue lolling, a ridiculous tuft of hair sprouting from his head.
Within the space of one flashback, it’s not a stranger on my screen but Nudacris—Dad’s first miracle rescue—rolling in the grass while I giggled from a plastic kiddie chair.
That memory’s in my bones—Dad, me, the sound of his laugh.
I want to give that back to him. I want to believe there’s still room for joy.
Glancing at the frozen frame of the goofy little dog, I imagine Dad’s battered hands stroking its ridiculous hair. For the first time since the crash, I see a picture of our future that isn’t only grief.