Asking about Alexa’s past doesn’t reveal much other than the fact that Riley is still a terrible liar. I’ve tried asking her softball questions too — simple things, like how long we’ve lived together. But she just replies vaguely, always on the verge of tears, glancing down to Biscuit for some emotional guidance.

Thankfully, things remain normalish and the dog doesn’t answer either, limiting his input to more whining for food.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask, now skillfully wielding my fork toward my shrinking stack of pancakes, “You seem like you got worse sleep than me.”

She smiles at the panting pup, sighing to herself before slipping him another burnt reject from her plate. “I…err, you could say I’ve been up…all night.” She tries to sound cheerful, but it’s not going well, “I’m gonna take care of my bestie until she’s feeling right as rain.”

“Riley…I don’t even remember how we got here—”

“—Cause it was late when you texted me yesterday!”

“But…I had class last night,” I ponder, “Actually, have you seen my phone?”

She sniffles a bit, determined to look and feel happy, “I think I left your purse in my car…after your long visit at the uhm…dentist!”