As Nate pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time, he found it unresponsive, the battery drained. If he had to venture a guess, it was likely well past two in the morning. His eyes lifted to the sky, the heavy cloud cover blotting out the silver light from the moon or the twinkle of stars. It was just Nate and the orange glow of the streetlights. 

He was wandering without a destination now, though he’d had one in mind when he’d left his home. But now that he’d made it as far as downtown, he found he didn’t want to go any further. He was angry that a place could hold so much power over him, angry that the memory of it could keep him awake late into the night to avoid the dreams it might bring. And yet, he couldn’t make himself go there. Whatever resolve that had led him here had abandoned him now. So he found himself, instead, in front of Anna’s apartment building, sure he could count on her to be awake. And if she wasn’t? Well. She would be soon.

Knuckles rapped on the wooden door and he slumped against the doorway while he waited. He knew well enough what she’d see when she opened the door: Nate disheveled and just a little bit drunk, a lopsided smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes. “Annie,” he greeted, voice pitched a little too loudly, when she finally opened the door. He straightened and shrugged, as if it were explanation enough. “I was in the neighborhood.”

Some might say it was a bad habit of his-- showing up unannounced-- but Nate was more inclined to call it a quirk. Plus, he hated cell phones, hated how available they made people, and did his best to forget they existed at all. So, no-- as he lifted a hand to knock on Anna’s door-- he hadn’t called first. 

He and Anna’s relationship wasn’t strained, exactly. But they’d spent enough time apart, perhaps too much time isolated and molded by their parents, that the disconnect was still there. That had been the reason he’d chosen Salem over Boston, after all. He wanted a relationship with his sister, wanted something that tied him here that wasn’t Fei. Something solid, immovable. So, two coffees in hand-- black since he didn’t know what she preferred-- he stepped back and waited for her to answer.

At the apex of a fast-motion tangent stood Daisy. Knees together, hands crossed. Looking down at her wet socks. Not so wet that you'd catch a cold, but enough to feel like drowning. With hindsight, she shouldn't have got into the shower with her socks on. But looking back at it she doesn't even remember turning the water on. And as the water continued pouring she remained frozen, staring down at the now semi-transparent white socks, bought at a thrift store and most likely from the man's section. Could've been from the kids', but she had them long enough that she was a kid herself. She stared at them thinking she should have probably thrown them out already, and what the hell is that red spot in the middle? Is that blood? Is that her own? At the kitchen was her mother. Making dinner, making Daisy feel as if her family never once was abnormal. Or strange. Or dare she say... dysfunctional. Dare she say broken and just too damn conflicted and complicated. And instead of finding an answer to the mystery of the wet. bloody socks she chose to concentrate on her blissful family. Even if it's only make-believe.