Buried Betrayal on Eight Hundred Acres 34

morning, one hand on my phone, one eye on a work message, Camila beside me at breakfast trying to tell me something about Sofi moving her desk and not eating lunch. I had been late. I had been irritated. I had told her not to be intense, that sometimes friends needed space.

Adult hurry has a cruel talent for making enormous signals seem small.

I knelt continue reading …