elda hoists Elisa to her feet. The girl is wild, trying to tear herself away, scrabbling for something in her pocket, but Zelda holds tight. Elisa isn’t just shaking. She’s convulsing, breath pounding, eyes blinkless and frenzied. Elisa’s hand rises from her pocket, holding what looks like a hypodermic syringe. A drop of silver liquid hangs from the tip, jeweled in the barest smidge of dawn’s blush. Zelda slowly draws her eyes from the needle’s point to Elisa.

“Honey,” she whispers. “Settle down.”

Her voice creates an effect that her face hadn’t. Elisa pushes the needle back into her pocket and collapses against Zelda, taking handholds of her uniform. Zelda has felt this kind of rageful hurt only at funerals and lets it happen, wrapping her arms around Elisa’s throttling back. Her uniform is wet. It’s soaking. Zelda looks over Elisa’s shoulder into the pile of wet laundry. White towels, white lab coats, white sheets— And a single golden eye.

“Oh my God,” Zelda gasps. “Oh my God.”

Elisa pulls apart, grasping Zelda by the forearms, pleading with every quiver. Maybe it’s her ability to use those fingers to talk, but somehow through them everything is answered: why she’s been so cold with Zelda, why she’s tried to drive her friend away. It was because of this, because she didn’t want Zelda to become culpable in this, and it is just this dedication to their friendship that makes Zelda damn all good sense and take her place at the cart’s handle.

“You’re crazy,” Zelda says. “Now push.”