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Simone: Not trying to pressure you, but... tick-tock. We’re almost to the deadline. How’s the story coming along? Keeping that horse alive?

Grace: The horse is alive and well.

Which was more than Gracie could say for the rest of the story. Or herself.

After the bathtub incident, when it became clear hours later that sleep wasn’t an option—since any time she closed her eyes she either saw Luke’s stony expression or Noah’s up-close lips—she spent the entire night click-clacking on the old typewriter she’d made Noah dig out of the closet before he left.

Obviously her special writing desk hadn’t been cutting it on its own. So obviously she needed the special typewriter she’d never used before. Because obviously her special typewriter would give her story that missing zing.

And at three in the morning, it had. Oh, it had!

Funny, though, how ideas that sound positively zingy at three in the morning feel positively stupid hours later in the bright light of day.

Simone: Great! Knew you could do this!

Gracie stared at her phone screen, tempted to text back, I lied. I can’t do this. The horse has a terminal illness and I can’t save him. I can’t save the story. I can’t save anyone. Sorry sorry sorry.

But after a tired sigh, she searched for a GIF of a horse giving a big toothy grin up close to a camera. Then hit send.