Chapter 4: Cracks in the Foundation – Time’s Theft

On Sunday mornings, the apartment feels more like a bubble than a home—sealed off from the noise of city life, pressed in at every seam by the heat of late September and the expectation that the real world starts tomorrow. Nawana wakes first, always. She likes the hush before Jordan’s alarm explodes, the way light slants through the bay window and stains the floor in fat rectangles, each a different shade of gold. She draws barefoot, sitting cross-legged on the chipped tile of the kitchen because the table’s covered in Jordan’s anatomy diagrams and last night’s empty Red Bull cans. The unfinished sketch is a self-portrait, but less of her face and more of the mess of tangled arms and limbs—liminal, half-crow, half-girl, the charcoal lines thicker and meaner than she meant them.

She’s erasing the left wing for the third time when Jordan shuffles in, hair rumpled and eyes half-closed, wearing nothing but a sports bra and the boxer shorts with tiny cartoon bacteria that always make Nawana want to grin and bite at the same time. Jordan grunts, rooting through the fridge for milk, and pours cereal like she’s never done it before.

“Why are you up?” Jordan says, voice ruined by sleep. “It’s a weekend.”

“Brain wouldn’t turn off,” Nawana says, not looking up. “I had a nightmare about the scholarship review board turning into actual wolves. They ate my portfolio, and then they just stared at me with, like, no remorse.”

Jordan sits across from her, legs splayed, bowl propped between her knees. “Is that a real fear?”

“Pretty much,” says Nawana. She flicks a strand of hair from her face, charcoal smudging her cheek in the process. Critique day is in two weeks. I have to bring a finished piece and talk about how my ‘identity informs my process.’” She tries for a laugh, but it comes out too tight.

Jordan nods, spooning cereal with clinical precision. “Just tell them you’re a Cherokee digital witch and you’ll curse their iPads. Works every time.”

This makes Nawana smile, and she lets it sit between them for a minute. The sunlight sharpens, slides up Jordan’s thigh, glows through the softest part of her. The silence that follows is easy, the kind you have to earn.

Jordan’s phone buzzes on the counter. She glances at it, then makes a face and silences it without reading.

“Who’s that?” Nawana asks, not quite casual.

Jordan shrugs. “Probably Mia. She wants to review case studies before Wednesday’s seminar.” She frowns at the phone as if it’s personally betrayed her. “She’s good, but, like, relentless. I don’t think she sleeps.”

“Maybe she’s part wolf,” Nawana mutters, and then, before she can stop herself, “Do you think she has a thing for you?”

Jordan snorts, but there’s a flicker of unease behind the bravado. “Mia’s only turned on by organic chemistry. She’s not ... interested.” She shovels another bite of cereal, then adds, “I told you already.”

“Yeah,” says Nawana, but her brain refuses to let go of the image: Mia with her cloud of dark hair, her perfume thick as honey, the way she always touched Jordan’s arm in the hallway. The old ache sharpens, carves out a hollow space inside.

Jordan finishes her cereal, sets the bowl in the sink, and comes to sit beside Nawana on the floor. She leans her head on Nawana’s shoulder, heavy and warm. “I like that you worry,” she says quietly. “But you don’t have to. I’m here, okay?”