Chapter 2

The apartment is smaller than Conrad expects, but it's tidy and well kept, as if nobody has ever lived in it for more than a week at a time. Sunlight pours through the high windows, unfiltered by curtains or blinds, turning the white walls almost surgical and making dust motes look like they're on display. The air smells faintly of paint and a little of cardboard, like moving day in a furniture showroom.

He stands in the doorway for a full minute, duffel bags dragging at his shoulders, backpack slumping against his spine. This is it. One-bedroom, off-campus, furnished if you count the bone-white couch, square-legged desk, and a bed that looks like it might collapse under the weight of a single bad dream. The hardwood floors have a new shine, and each scuff of his sneaker seems to leave a mark, like he's vandalizing the place just by breathing.

All in all, it's not much. But it's his if he ignores the technicality of it being a rental, and most importantly it is void of any memories of absolutely anybody.

He dumps his luggage in the middle of the living room, then circles once—kitchenette, bathroom, a closet too shallow for a real coat. No signs of the last tenant except for a single sock, navy blue, orphaned beside the refrigerator.

First, he opens all the windows, cranking the handles until they stick. August air swells in, heavy with eucalyptus and the distant chlorine of the Stanford pool. There's a shout from somewhere down the block, maybe a welcome party, maybe just a guy angry at his own keys. Conrad doesn't care which. He's sweating within seconds, but he can't bring himself to close the glass again. He likes the sound—the street, the trees, anything but silence.

He unzips his duffels and starts to unpack, folding each shirt and pair of jeans with the kind of precision that would make his father proud, if Adam Fisher cared about laundry and didn't pay someone to do it for him. Socks balled, T-shirts rolled. He lines up his sneakers under the coat rack, always left to right, smallest to biggest.

The Stanford pennant comes out of a cardboard tube, and he smooths the corners against the wall with the flat of his palm, pressing each tack with surgical care. The books are next—Bio, Chem, Orgo, and a battered copy of Introduction to Psych because he heard it was an easy A. He arranges them by size on the desk, biggest at the ends, smallest in the middle. It looks intentional, almost like art. He steps back, eyes the shelf, then nudges each book closer together so there's no gap between them.

His phone buzzes. He checks the screen, Jeremiah, texting again. He swipes the message away thumb lingering just a little too long on the glass before flipping the phone face down. He puts it under a stack of pre-med pamphlets so it won't distract him, then starts on the next bag.

The kitchen cabinets are empty except for a chipped white mug in the shape of a bear, probably a campus giveaway. He rinses it and lines it up dead centre on the counter. Next to it, he unpacks a single spoon, knife, and fork, each wrapped in a napkin. He opens the fridge—nothing but a packet of ketchup and two cans of seltzer from the last tenant. He makes a note to go shopping, then immediately loses the piece of paper when it places it in a pile of his other 'reminder' notes. He doesn't write it down again.

The whole time, his mind stays blank—just task, then task, then task—until he runs out of things to do. He stands in the middle of the living room, hands at his sides, and listens. Now that he's finished, it's too quiet. Even with the windows open, there's a pressurized stillness, like the world is holding its breath and waiting for him to fail.

His phone buzzes again. This time, it's not a text. It rings, shrill and insistent, drilling through the silence. He snatches it up, thumb hovering over "decline," but something holds him back. Maybe it's the memory of last summer, or the way his own brother's name still reads like an open wound.

He lets it go to voicemail. The sound stops. He waits for the buzz that means a new message, but it doesn't come. Instead, there's a gap, a yawning pause where Conrad briefly wonders if this would be when Jeremiah gives up.

He grabs the bear mug, fills it with water from the tap, and sits at the desk. The window light lands in a rectangle across the desktop, bright enough to hurt. He sips the water, then sets it down with a thud.

He can hear his own breathing. Slow, then fast, then slow again. He picks at the label on the mug, tearing it away in tiny strips until there's nothing but a sticky shadow left.

The urge to call back is physical—a knot in his gut, an ache in his teeth. Instead, he opens his laptop and loads the Stanford pre-med orientation site. Passwords, forms, reading lists. All forward, never back.

He smooths the edge of the pennant again, then opens the closet and stands inside, staring at the empty hangers. He imagines them full. Suits for interviews, sweatshirts for late-night cramming, maybe something nice for the rare night out. He laughs, short and sharp, at the thought.

When the sun starts to drop, he closes the windows, one by one. He locks each with a click. The light in the room changes from hospital white to a dull, blue-grey. He sits on the couch and scrolls through the missed texts—Jeremiah, Jeremiah, then one from his father. Settle in okay? Don't forget to email Kayleigh your schedule. Conrad types a reply, Yeah, all good. Will do, then deletes it and sends nothing.

The last call comes at midnight. The phone vibrates on the desk, rattling the mug. He watches the screen glow, watches the name blink, but lets it go dark again. This time there's no urge to answer, only a slow, settling peace.

He stands at the window, looking out over the empty street. A single car passes, headlights slicing the night, then gone. He listens to the silence until he can't stand it, then goes to the fridge, grabs a seltzer, and cracks it open just to hear the hiss.

He leaves the lights on when he goes to bed. In the dark, he's not sure what he's supposed to feel, so he feels nothing at all. The silence is a living thing, and he lets it crawl over him, inch by inch, until it's the only thing left.

In the morning, Conrad wakes up before his alarm, heart already ticking fast. He pulls on yesterday's clothes, turns on the faucet, and lets the water run until it's ice-cold. He doesn't drink it, just likes the sound—reminds him of the ocean, if the ocean were forced through a plastic straw and dumped into a rented apartment in Palo Alto.

He finds a jar of instant coffee in the back of a cabinet he had missed the day before and spoons a heaping mound into the chipped bear mug, uncaring how stale and old it probably was. It doesn't dissolve all the way, and he stirs it with a fork until the liquid goes from black to something that looks like tar. He drinks it anyway. It's bitter enough to make his eyes water.

He sits at the kitchen table, opens his laptop, and types in his Stanford credentials. The page loads slow, the cursor spinning and spinning, like it knows he has nowhere else to be. When the homepage appears, it's all due dates, orientation schedules, and a hundred new names he doesn't recognize. He scrolls through the pre-med requirements, reads the same paragraph three times, then closes the tab. He stares at the closed lid for a while. There's a chair pulled out across from him, empty. He tries not to look at it but can't help himself.

His phone is silent for the first time in days, which means either Jeremiah's given up or is about to pull something dramatic. Conrad hopes for the former, but bets on the latter. He brings up his contacts, thumb hovering over Jere's name, then over Belly's, then over Steven's, but he doesn't hit "call." Instead, he pockets the phone and looks at the wall, waiting for the next hour to tick by.

The apartment feels smaller in daylight. The sunlight bleaches the colours out of everything, making the couch and the table and even his own hands look like faded copies. He's halfway through a second mug of coffee when the phone rings.

This time it's Steven.

He lets it buzz three times before answering. "Yeah."

"Where are you?" Steven's voice is bright and brisk, the way he always sounds when he's hiding something.

"Stanford."

"Like, in class?"

"No. Apartment."

"Already?" A pause, like Steven's checking a calendar. "I thought you weren't moving in until orientation week."

"I wanted to get here early. Get settled."

"Off-campus?" Steven says, not even trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

"Yeah. As good as I am at beer pong, I don't think I'm quite frat material."

A dry laugh. "Your dad know you're already moved in?"

"I don't think he cares." Conrad sips the coffee. "What do you want, Steve?"

Steven hesitates, then: "Just checking. You weren't answering. I didn't know if you were alive."

"I'm alive."

Another pause. "You heard from Jere?"

"No."

"Or Belly?"

Conrad closes his eyes. "No."

Steven's voice softens. "You know they're both—"

"I know." Conrad's knuckle digs into the bear's chipped ear. He twists it back and forth. "They can do whatever they want."

A noise on the other end, maybe a sigh or a laugh. "You're not mad?"

He shrugs, even though Steven can't see it. "Not my problem anymore."

"Right." Steven's silent for a long time. "You start class soon?"

"Orientation Monday. I'll be fine."

"You could call my mom. You know how she worries."

"I'll think about it."

Steven's about to say something else, but the words don't make it out. Conrad listens to the dead air, then hangs up.

He sits for a while, staring at the empty chair, then at the mug, then at his own hands. There's a ring on his finger—silver with a tiny sapphire chip, the last birthday gift his mother pressed into his palm before the hospital, her voice a whisper, "Something blue to remember me by". He twists it around and around, remembering how he shoved it in a sock after receiving it until he found it a week prior.

He stands, carries the mug to the sink, and rinses it out. He's careful not to leave any grounds behind. He sets it on the counter, handle turned precisely to the right, ready for the next time.

There's not much to do after that. He paces the apartment, from couch to desk to window, watching people pass by below. Strangers in backpacks, arms full of books or groceries, faces squinting against the sun. None of them look up. He wonders if anyone ever does.

He pulls the curtain half-closed, just enough so the outside world is a blur of light and movement. It's easier that way—less to focus on.

He thinks about the sock again, the one by the fridge. He leaves it where it is. Every place has a ghost, and this one can be his.

He locks the front door, then checks it twice, yanking the handle to make sure it's solid. He tells himself it's for safety, but really it's about control. He's done letting people in—literally and otherwise.

He stands in the silent room, the only sound his own breathing, and he says it out loud this time, just to make it real.

"Never again," he mutters, jaw tight.

The apartment doesn't answer, but the words hang in the air, thick and final.

Conrad leaves the lights on, and for once, the silence feels like company.