The sudden feeling of a hand on my shoulder made me jump, the music blasting into my ears having obscured the sounds of someone approaching.

“Dinner’s ready,” Mother blithely informed me as I ripped off my headphones and tried to still my thundering heart.

“Fu— for real almost gave me a heart attack!” I blurted, narrowly saving myself from a lecture about ‘how a lady should speak.’ I’d already had enough of those to last me a life time.

“Mmm,” she hummed with disapproval, apparently uninterested in rehashing her distaste for how much time I spent listening to music—or just as likely her distaste for what I was listening to. She must be really hungry.

She was halfway down the stairs before I’d reached the door to my room and already at the table, waiting impatiently together with Father. Neither looked impressed with my lackadaisical pace, which they really ought to have figured out by now only encouraged me. Of course, I was moving slowly for more than just pissing off my parents. Even now, nearly half a year post-surgery, I still felt only half-pieced back together. As far as I was concerned, they would just have to wait.

Once I finally slipped into my seat, they quickly gave thanks for the food that I half-heartedly echoed, and we began to eat. I quickly began to all but shovel the food into my mouth, though not because I enjoyed it. Which wasn’t to say it was bad. In fact, I imagined most people with a taste for the fare would consider Mother’s cooking exceptional. The problem was I found it all but impossible to enjoy it when in my parents’ presence for longer than was strictly necessary. Taking the food to my room was not allowed, as was not finishing all of my food—solution, eat as quickly as fucking possible and ghost.

“I trust you’ve managed to catch up on your schoolwork?” Father asked, clearly seeing my intention and moving to ensure maximum awkwardness before I could vanish into my room. I couldn’t help but notice he didn’t ask ‘how was school’ or ‘are the teachers and students treating you differently’ or ‘do you still need more time to recover’ or anything that might imply actually caring. Ignorant of my thoughts—or perhaps he knew and just wanted to really drive the knife in—he added, “We tolerated your indiscretion and its consequences, but they are no excuse for abandoning your education.”

“Yes, Father,” I replied, doing my best to keep my response from being the completely flat monotone it would naturally be.

For fifteen blessed seconds, nothing further was said, and I began to hope they’d learned to leave well enough alone.

I should have known hope is a dangerous thing. “I have some important news about work.”

I paused, my chopsticks and the pork cutlet clasped between their tips poised an inch from my mouth. There were a million possibilities caught up in that one sentence, but given the immediately preceding question, one horrifying possibility stood out from the rest.

Why must I always feel so helpless?

“I was offered a generous promotion to a position in Brockton Bay.”

To see it coming but unable to take that step.

“Won’t that be nice? Maybe if you’re nice to the Reuters, they’ll—”

I jab my chopsticks down into the rice, already out of my seat and moving to the door.

“Junko, come back here!”

It hurts so much—ripping, tearing—but I don’t allow myself to stop. Stopping means being stuck, and I don’t want to be stuck, but I don’t want to leave, and I—

I’m down the stairs, through the store, onto the streets. New York is never asleep, but it’s especially alive now in the early hours of the evening. I fold into the masses, taking refuge in the confluence of languages in the air drowning out the last vestiges of Father and Mother’s Japanese, in the woven tapestry of light and sound and living.

I pass a pay phone and finger the quarter in my pocket.

No. No, we agreed it was a mistake—that we should wait before seeing each other again.

I just didn’t think it would be like this.