Chapter Seven
Everywhere
By morning, Emma had decided the number thirty-eight meant nothing.
It was only a number.
A stray thought.
The kind of meaningless thing the mind produced when it was tired.
She repeated that explanation while brushing her teeth, carefully avoiding her reflection. She repeated it while dressing, while tying her shoes, while standing in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to finish dripping.
Thirty-eight.
She did not say it.
She refused to think it.
The number stayed anyway.
Mark walked into the kitchen with his hair still damp from the shower. He leaned over and kissed the side of her head.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
He reached for a mug from the cabinet above her.
The door remained open after he stepped away.
Emma stared into her coffee.
She could feel the cabinet behind her without turning around. It seemed to occupy the entire room, wider than the refrigerator, taller than the ceiling.
Mark poured his coffee.
“Sleep okay?”
“Yes.”
It came out too quickly.
He glanced at her, but only for a second.
“You sure?”
Emma lifted the mug to her lips.
“I’m fine.”
Mark nodded. He added cream, then sugar, stirring until the spoon clicked against the side of the cup.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Emma’s fingertips began tapping lightly against the warm ceramic.
One.
Two.
Three.
She stopped herself and wrapped both hands around the mug, but she could still feel the rhythm beneath her skin.
Mark carried his coffee to the table.
The cabinet remained open.
She kept her back to it.
She would not close it.
She would leave it exactly as he had left it.
She would prove that she could.
Mark drank his coffee while scrolling through his phone. Emma stood at the counter, staring at the dark surface of her own drink.
Behind her, the cabinet waited.
Five minutes passed.
Maybe six.
She did not look at the clock.
Looking at the clock would create another number.
Mark pushed his chair back.
“I’m heading out.”
Emma nodded.
He picked up his keys from the table and kissed her cheek.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The front door opened.
Closed.
His footsteps faded down the hall.
Emma remained at the counter.
The apartment was silent.
The cabinet was still open.
She lasted twelve seconds.
Then she turned, crossed the kitchen, and slammed it shut hard enough to rattle the dishes inside.
The sound hung in the air.
Emma stared at the closed door.
Her heartbeat answered.
One.
Two.
Three.
“No.”
She pressed both palms against the counter.
“No counting.”
Four.
She shut her eyes.
Five.
The coffee machine clicked as it cooled.
Six.
Emma grabbed her purse and left without finishing her drink.
Outside, the world was already busy.
Cars filled the street. A bus groaned at the corner. Someone shouted into a phone while hurrying past her. A woman stood beside a stroller, bouncing one foot impatiently as she waited for the light to change.
Emma focused on the traffic.
Anything but numbers.
A blue car passed.
Then a red one.
Then another blue.
Her mind arranged them before she could stop it.
Blue.
Red.
Blue.
One.
Two.
Three.
Emma looked down at the sidewalk.
A crack split the concrete near her shoe.
Then another.
Then another.
She stepped over them.
One.
Two.
Three.
Her breath caught.
She stopped walking.
People moved around her, annoyed by the sudden obstruction. A man brushed her shoulder and muttered something under his breath.
Emma stepped aside.
She stared at the storefront across the street.
Three lights were burned out in the sign.
Three.
The number landed inside her with the force of a dropped stone.
She turned away.
A cyclist passed.
The wheels clicked against the pavement.
One-two.
One-two.
One-two.
Emma pressed her hands over her ears.
The sound continued inside her skull.
She hurried toward work.
At the crosswalk, the signal began counting down.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Emma froze at the curb.
The numbers glowed red.
Six.
Five.
Four.
People stepped around her and crossed.
Three.
Two.
One.
The light changed.
Emma remained where she was.
A horn blared behind her.
She jumped.
The people beside her moved forward, and Emma followed because standing still felt worse.
By the time she reached the office, sweat had gathered beneath the collar of her blouse.
The lobby doors opened automatically.
Two security guards sat behind the desk.
Four chairs lined the wall.
Six ceiling lights reflected across the polished floor.
Emma looked away.
She entered the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor.
The doors began to close.
A hand slipped between them.
They opened again.
A man stepped inside.
“Thanks.”
Emma nodded.
He pressed seven.
The buttons glowed side by side.
Five.
Seven.
Five.
Seven.
Emma stared at the seam between the doors.
The elevator rose.
Second floor.
Third.
Fourth.
The doors opened on five.
Emma rushed out before they had fully separated.
At her desk, she placed her purse in the bottom drawer and turned on her computer.
She kept her eyes on the screen.
Emails waited in her inbox.
Twenty-three unread.
She clicked the first one.
Then the next.
Then the next.
She did not count them.
She refused.
But each message disappeared from the unread total.
Twenty-two.
Twenty-one.
Twenty.
Emma minimized the inbox.
She opened a blank document instead.
The cursor blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
She looked toward the ceiling.
The air vent hummed.
Someone tapped a pen against a desk nearby.
Tap.
Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
Tap.
Pause.
Emma tried to focus on the words she needed to type.
The pen continued.
Two taps.
Then silence.
Two taps.
Then silence.
She stood so quickly her chair rolled backward.
Her coworker, Rachel, looked over the divider.
“You okay?”
Emma turned toward the sound of her voice.
Rachel held the pen in one hand.
Emma stared at it.
“What?”
“You jumped up like something bit you.”
“I’m fine.”
Rachel gave a cautious smile.
“You keep saying that.”
Emma did not answer.
Rachel lowered the pen.
The silence should have helped.
It didn’t.
Emma could still hear the tapping.
Two.
Pause.
Two.
Pause.
She walked to the restroom.
Inside, one stall was occupied.
A pair of shoes showed beneath the door.
Emma entered the stall farthest away and locked it.
The metal latch clicked.
She lowered the lid and sat.
Her hands trembled in her lap.
She tried to think of something soft.
Mark sleeping beside her.
The warmth of his back.
His hand reaching for hers beneath the blankets.
A Sunday morning years ago, when they had stayed in bed until noon and laughed because neither of them wanted to make breakfast.
She held on to the memory.
For a moment, it worked.
Then the toilet in the next stall flushed.
A door opened.
Footsteps crossed the tile.
One.
Two.
Three.
The sink turned on.
Water rushed from the faucet.
Four.
Five.
The hand dryer roared.
Emma squeezed her eyes shut.
Six.
The restroom door opened.
Closed.
Silence returned.
Emma sat completely still.
Her heart knocked against her ribs.
She whispered, “It’s not Mark.”
The words frightened her more than the counting had.
She had blamed the cabinet.
The socks.
The light.
She had blamed his carelessness, his forgetfulness, the endless small things he left behind for her to correct.
But Mark was not here.
There were no socks beside the hamper.
No bathroom light glowing in an empty room.
No cabinet door waiting for her hand.
And still—
Seven.
Emma covered her mouth.
The number had come quietly.
Almost gently.
Like it had been waiting for her to understand.
She left work before lunch.
She told Rachel she felt sick.
It was not a lie.
Outside, the city had grown louder.
Footsteps.
Car horns.
Crosswalk signals.
Doors opening.
Doors closing.
Every sound had a place.
Every place had a number.
Emma walked home with her eyes lowered and her hands clenched at her sides.
When she reached the apartment, she stopped outside the front door.
She could hear nothing inside.
Mark would not be home for hours.
She unlocked the door and stepped in.
The kitchen was exactly as she had left it.
The cabinet was closed.
The light was off.
The sink was empty.
Everything was in its place.
Emma should have felt relief.
Instead, she stood in the center of the room and listened.
The refrigerator hummed.
The wall clock ticked.
Her heart beat.
One.
Two.
Three.
Emma looked around the perfectly ordered kitchen.
Then she understood.
The count had never lived in the cabinet.
It lived in her.