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She’s cataloging the room. The sheets are her favorite brand. I ordered them the second I leased this place. She runs her hand along the edge of the pillowcase once, testing the fabric.

“These are⁠—”

“Yeah,” I admit, “They are similar to the ones you had before.”

She shifts slightly, settles, then takes a deep breath, inhaling the room.

“What detergent is this? It doesn’t smell how you … or at least you used to …” She doesn’t finish the sentence, and I don’t force her.

I look at the window. “I switched.”

“You switched your laundry detergent.” The words come out one at a time, as if she doesn’t want to finish the sentence.

I make a noncommittal grunt. “Yours doesn’t irritate my skin.” Which is the closest thing to a neutral explanation I have that won’t make her uncomfortable.

Phoenix looks at me for a moment, and before I can read her feelings, she gives a big yawn. The pain medicine is starting to kick in.

“Your water bottle is filled,” I say. “Prescriptions in the bag if you need more.”

“Jackson—”

“I’ll be close by,” I say, “But I promise to give you your privacy.

“Thank you,” she acquiesces begrudgingly.

“Goodnight, Phoenix.” I leave before she needs to respond.

Standing outside the sunroom, I take one breath. One moment of relishing the fact I had her in my arms. Then I get to work.

Grabbing my laptop, I start with what Mack said: burnout. I have heard of it, it’s common in high-intensity careers like ours. I have never thought about the meaning behind it or looked deeper. What does it look like? What are the actual side effects?

I start researching, creating a document, and adding links and passages that resonate. I dive deeper into case studies and first-person accounts, focusing on the literature on high-achieving women in demanding professions. It presents differently in many people, but I spot the similarities and how easily it can be missed or mistaken for something else entirely. Like I did.

True burnout cases are often undiagnosed and not recognized by the people who have it. The same drive that got them where they are is also what dismisses the symptoms.

I am an hour into my research, feeling as if another layer of my girl is revealing itself to me. A dull throb behind my eyes starts, and as I rub the ache away, I remember all the times Phoenix had a headache. How I gave her the roller bottle because she was afraid of taking too much Advil. The look on her face when she asked me about the peppermint oil and Cassandra will haunt me forever.

Shaking my head, I focus my energy on how to help Phoenix. Standing and stretching, needing to move to feel useful, I walk by Phoenix’s room and peer in slightly to make sure she’s okay. As hard as a time as she has falling asleep some nights, when she does, there is no waking her. I smile thinking of the times she passed out on my chest, dead to the world. And you left like a thief in the night.

She would fall asleep, and I would savor the minutes I had until I left without waking her. I told myself it was what she wanted, she suggested we stay hidden. I was respecting her terms. But I was lying to myself. Choosing to protect the assignment, I dressed it up as protecting her.

Shutting the door, I bring out my phone and dial my little brother, Jordan Mercer JR. As a founder of a highly successful start-up, he must have seen this before, or at least attended an HR talk or two.

The phone rings twice before he answers.

“Hey, old man,” he says easily. “You alive down there in Cascadia?”

“Debatable. And I am only eighteen months older than you, asshole,” I bite back with no heat.

That earns a laugh as I hear keyboard clicks in the background.

“It’s after nine,” I say. “Do tech founders not sleep?”

“That’s rich coming from you. Besides, sleep is for companies not approaching unicorn status.” He finishes typing and asks, “Why do you sound weird?”

I lean back against the butcher block countertop I helped Phoenix install, wishing I could go back to that day and make a hundred different choices.

“I need advice,” I admit.