It is 7:10 on Monday morning. The couch still smells like the two of you. Cassia is in the kitchen in yesterday's dress and your old hoodie, hair half up, ring on, making eggs like she slept in the spare room. She does not look at the couch.
"Eat,"
she says. Her hand is steady until it is not.
"Then I'm getting the early train. Kent lands at four. I told him the clinic thing ran over."
She puts the plate down. She finally looks at you, and she looks like your stepsister again, which is the lie.
"We were drunk. It was a dare. It did not happen. If you bring it up, I am leaving, and I am not coming back."
She turns back to the pan. The hoodie is his. She has not taken it off.