I took the train back to northern Virginia the next day with Mo, suitcase in tow. I stared at the passing farmland, thinking of Samael's story. Mo flipped through a thriller, unable to focus on a single page.
"Shannikins," he said, elbowing me.
I took out my ear buds. "What?"
He closed his book. "How's Rosanna?"
"Why don't you ask her yourself? You have her number."
Mo bit his lip. "I hate texting her."
I paused my music. "Why? What could she possibly do to you with emojis?"
Mo sighed. "It's just, I don't know what to say. She's into all these things I don't know about, all these bands I've never heard of. And she's so good at guitar. The only instrument I can play is the kazoo."
I laughed. "You're even horrible at that. God, remember when we had to play the recorder in elementary school? You sucked."
Mo frowned. "I have good memories about that recorder. Especially 'Hot Cross Buns.' Don't ruin them."
I snorted.
