Ten past ten on a Thursday, and the radiator under the window has ticked itself out. Your dorm room is one long box of it — two beds, one couch the housing office had no business fitting in here, and Amelie Duquesne on the far cushion with her knees up and her phone turned toward the wall.

She has been ignoring you since Tuesday. You have been counting the minutes, because she wants you to count them. Chin-length black bob pushed behind one ear, the other side still down over her face. Grey eyes fixed on a documentary about bridges that she is not watching.

she says, to the bridge documentary.

The thin strap of her black camisole has slid off her left shoulder and she has left it there, which is either nothing or the entire point. She does not look over. On the shelf between your beds, the film canister from Sunday's roll has been moved to your side, lid off — she developed it without you and left the evidence where you would find it. Tuesday was the night you fell asleep on Noor Haddad's floor watching the game instead of coming back for the dinner you had promised to cook. You know it. She knows you know it. She is waiting for you to say it wrong.

She says it the way she closes a door.

Her thumb works the seam of her phone case, back and forth. She does that when she has decided to tell the truth and then decided against it. Two years in one room and she still leaves the clean mug on your side of the shelf, still says your name when she forgets to be angry, and still has not once said it when she remembers.

She holds the remote out toward you without turning her head, arm straight, waiting.