CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Morning comes without ceremony, the light filtering in gradually rather than announcing itself, soft enough that it takes a moment to notice the shift. Riley is already awake when Amanda’s mom appears in the doorway, her voice quiet but direct as it carries into the room.

“Up,” she says gently. “Go shower before breakfast.”

Riley nods as she sits up, the movement slow but immediate, her body responding before she needs to think about it. There’s no hesitation, no question, just a small adjustment as she slides off the bed and moves toward the hallway, the instruction settling into her the same way everything else has.

The bathroom is warm by the time she steps in, steam already gathering along the mirror and the edges of the room. She moves through it quickly, efficiently, the process reduced to something practical rather than reflective, each step familiar enough that it doesn’t need attention. By the time she steps back out, the house has fully shifted into morning.

Breakfast is already waiting.

It’s simple, set out neatly, the kind of meal that doesn’t ask for comment. Amanda is quieter than usual, still waking up as she sits at the table, while her parents move around the kitchen with the same steady rhythm as the night before, nothing out of place, nothing delayed.

Riley takes her place without needing to be told.

They eat without lingering, the conversation light and scattered, never settling into anything that might hold too long. Amanda says something about a teacher again, her voice picking up in brief bursts before fading, and her dad responds with a short laugh that doesn’t quite carry. It all feels normal in the way everything has started to feel normal, the edges softened by repetition.

When the plates are cleared, Amanda’s mom dries her hands and turns back toward Riley.

“You should head home,” she says, her tone even, practical rather than heavy. “Be with your family while you can.”

Riley nods once.

“Yes.”

There’s no argument, no attempt to stretch the time further, the decision already sitting where it needs to be.

Amanda walks her to the door, slower this time, the space between them filled with something quieter than the night before. She hesitates just slightly before stepping in, wrapping her arms around Riley in a hug that lingers a fraction longer than usual.

“Text me,” she says, even though they both know it doesn’t mean much now.

“I will.”

Amanda pulls back, studying her for a second as if she might say something else, then lets it go. “Okay.”

Her parents are there too, waiting in the same easy way as the day before. Amanda’s dad gives her a brief hug, familiar and unremarked, while her mom stands just behind him, her expression softer, but unchanged from the quiet certainty she held the night before.

She doesn’t mention it.

Doesn’t need to.

“Take care of yourself,” she says instead, the words simple enough to pass as routine.

Riley nods.

“I will.”

The door opens.

The air outside is cooler than before, sharper in a way that feels more immediate against her skin. Riley steps out without hesitation, the movement steady, the same as it was yesterday, the same as it has been each time she’s crossed this threshold.

Behind her, the door closes.

And she starts walking.

Home feels the same when she steps back inside, the air carrying the same quiet familiarity it always has, as if nothing has shifted in the hours she’s been gone. Her parents are already there, moving through the space in small, unremarkable ways, but the moment they see her something in that motion stops, the rhythm breaking just enough to make room for her again.

Neither of them says much.

They don’t need to.

Her mother reaches her first, pulling her in with a kind of urgency that doesn’t feel sudden so much as delayed, like it’s been waiting for her return. Her father follows a second later, and between them Riley is guided toward the sofa without discussion, the three of them settling into place as if it had already been decided.

They sit like that, close enough that there’s no space left between them, Riley held in the middle, her mother’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, her father’s hand resting low at her side. The contact is constant but not shifting, not searching—just there, steady and firm in a way that doesn’t need adjustment.

They don’t talk.

The silence isn’t empty, and it isn’t uncomfortable. It holds something heavier than conversation would, something that doesn’t need to be shaped into words. Now and then her mother’s hand moves slightly, smoothing over Riley’s arm or shoulder, while her father’s grip tightens just enough to be felt before easing again.

Riley lets herself be held.

She doesn’t move away, doesn’t try to fill the quiet, just settles into it, letting the warmth of them press in from both sides until it feels like the only thing there is. Time passes without marking itself clearly, the light shifting slowly across the room as the morning moves forward in the background.

At some point, noon arrives.

It doesn’t announce itself. There’s no sound, no change in the room beyond what was already happening, but Riley feels it anyway, the moment settling into place with a kind of quiet certainty.

She shifts slightly, just enough to move her arm free, and reaches for her phone.

The screen lights up in her hand, the brightness sharper than the room around her. For a second, she just looks at it, her thumb hovering before she opens her messages, her gaze settling on Amanda’s name near the top of the screen.

She taps it.

The conversation opens easily, familiar, filled with the kind of small exchanges that don’t feel like they belong to anything ending.

She types without pausing, the message forming in one smooth motion.

I’m off. Love you, babe.

She watches it for a second after sending, the small indicator confirming it’s gone through, her thumb lingering as if there might be something else to add, something to follow it, but nothing comes.

She doesn’t try again.

Instead, she lowers the phone back down, letting it rest beside her.

She doesn’t say goodbye.

The word never quite forms.

When she moves this time, it’s more deliberate, the shift breaking the shape they’ve held all morning. Her parents follow the motion instinctively, letting her stand but not stepping away, their hands lingering as she turns toward them.

She hugs them both again, closer this time, her arms wrapping fully around them in a way that leaves no space between. The contact holds for a moment longer than before, long enough to feel complete rather than extended, before she pulls back just enough to look at them.

She leans in first toward her mother, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, then turns and does the same with her father, the motion quiet and unspoken.

Neither of them comments.

They don’t need to.

Riley reaches for the sash at her side, her fingers finding it easily. The movement is simple, practiced, something she’s done before, but this time it carries a different weight as she pulls it free and gathers it in her hands.

For a second, she just holds it.

Then she steps forward and places it into her father’s hands.

He takes it without hesitation.

The space it leaves behind is immediate.

For the first time since she turned red, Riley feels it fully, the absence settling over her skin in a way that isn’t new but suddenly more present, more complete.

Naked.

Not just in form, but in something deeper, something that settles into her as she stands there, unheld for the first time since she came home.

Her parents don’t move.

They just look at her.

And Riley turns toward the door.

The walk to the bus stop is quieter than the one from Amanda’s, the streets more settled now, the movement of people thinning as the day presses forward. Riley follows the same familiar path without needing to think about it, her steps steady, her pace unhurried, as if there’s no reason to arrive any sooner than she will.

The stop comes into view gradually, the small shelter standing where it always has, unchanged and waiting.

She isn’t alone.

There are others already there, gathered in loose clusters or standing apart, each holding their own space without needing to claim it. Some are younger, smaller in a way that makes them stand out even in stillness, while others are older, their posture more settled, more fixed. No one speaks. There’s no conversation, no attempt to connect, just the quiet presence of people who have arrived for the same reason.

Riley steps into the space between them, not choosing a place so much as finding one that’s already there.

She waits.

Time passes without drawing attention to itself, the air holding steady around them, until the distant sound of the bus begins to build. It approaches slowly, the shape of it forming at the end of the street before pulling in with a low, familiar hiss.

The doors open.

No one rushes.

They move forward in turn, the line forming naturally without instruction, each step taken at the same measured pace. Riley follows when it’s her turn, stepping up and inside without hesitation.

The bus is already filling.

Rows of seats hold others like her, spread throughout without pattern, some sitting upright and still, others leaning slightly into the windows, their attention turned inward or fixed somewhere ahead. There are children among them, smaller bodies folded into the seats, their feet not quite touching the floor, and adults beside them, all of them sharing the same quiet composure.

No one speaks.

Riley moves down the aisle until she finds an open seat and sits, her posture aligning itself automatically as her hands come to rest where they’ve been taught to stay. The space fills around her as more step on, each finding their place without hesitation, until there’s nothing left empty.

The doors close.

The bus pulls away.

Outside, the streets continue as they always have, people moving, cars passing, nothing stopping long enough to mark what’s happening. Inside, the quiet holds, steady and complete, the movement of the bus carrying them forward without interruption.

There’s no urgency.

No hesitation.

Just the same quiet certainty that brought them all there, the same invisible pull that has drawn them in early, before they needed to be, before the time had fully come.

And Riley sits among them, one of many, moving with it.

The bus slows gradually, the motion easing rather than stopping outright, until it pulls in with a soft hiss that feels no different from any other stop. Outside, the building waits where it always has, broad and still, its presence settled into the space around it without needing to announce itself.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the driver’s voice carries back, even and practiced. “Alright,” he says, not raising it, not needing to. “Animals, disembark in an orderly fashion.”

The words land without resistance.

No one rushes.

They begin to stand in sequence, the movement passing from one seat to the next as if it has already been decided, each person stepping into the aisle at the same measured pace. Riley rises with them when it reaches her, her body following without hesitation, her place in the flow already set.

They move toward the door.

Outside, there’s no one waiting.

No guards. No handlers. No one positioned to guide them or pull them forward. The space beyond the bus is open, unoccupied in a way that feels deliberate rather than empty, the entrance to the Processing Centre visible ahead without obstruction.

Still, they step down.

One after another.

Riley follows, her feet finding the pavement as easily as they found the bus steps, the transition from inside to outside carrying no weight beyond the change in air. The others move around her in the same steady rhythm, spreading out slightly but never breaking the direction they share.

No one tells them where to go.

They go anyway.

The entrance draws them forward without force, the distance closing in the same quiet, inevitable way as everything else has. There’s no hesitation, no one turning back, no pause long enough to question what comes next.

They walk.

And Riley walks with them, the doors of the Processing Centre growing larger ahead, already open, already waiting, as the space behind her closes without needing to be shut.