I'm getting ready to go to work, while the post has already been up for eight hours. Straightening my hair, I click to refresh the page. So far, 224 shares and 875 "Likes." I put on my black wool suit and then click to refresh again. I look under the sofa to find my low-heeled black shoes – refresh. I pin the golden badge with my name on my lapel – refresh. The numbers keep getting bigger each time, the comments multiply.
You are so strong. You are so brave. What kind of monster could do something like this to a child? I open the last message I sent to Strain four hours ago: Are you okay...? He hasn't replied yet, he hasn't even read it. I type a new message – I'm here if you want to talk – but I rethink it and delete it. Instead, I send a line full of question marks, without words. I wait a few minutes, then call him, but hang up when the voicemail picks up, shove the phone in my pocket, and leave the apartment, sharply pulling the door to close behind me. There's no reason to try so hard. He messed up. It's his problem, not mine.