Kane sat on the edge of her bed. The room was quiet, except for the muffled thrum of laughter from the kitchen.
It sounded like a sitcom where the writers liked the characters.
Where the jokes landed.
Where nobody ever accidentally insulted a label maker.
“Of course you do,” Jane murmured.
Her hands shook slightly. Not fear. The specific frequency of being the least cool person in a three?meter radius. The kind of tremor that came from social static, not adrenaline.
She pressed her palms to her thighs.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re fine.”
The room didn’t argue. It just sat there, beige and neutral, like a witness who had already given up on her.
She needed a clean slate. A timeline where she hadn’t insulted Greg’s label maker, spilled the wine, or stalled in the doorway like a haunted Roomba. Just walk to her room. No jokes. No bonding. No tax.
“Reset,” she said.
Saying it helped. A little. Like tapping a cracked phone screen and pretending it fixed the pixels.
She reached for her bag.
Empty canvas.
“No,” she said. Then, politely, “No, thank you.”
She rummaged deeper. Keys. Chapstick. A receipt for a sandwich she bought when she was alive. A pen that didn’t work but she kept because it had once worked in front of someone she wanted to impress.
She shook the bag once.
Nothing.
“No,” Jane said again. Louder. The word bounced off the wall like it was trying to leave the room without her.
She stopped breathing for a second.
Entry.
Quesadilla.
The font joke.
The wine wobble.
The retreat.
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“Oh my god.”
She saw it clearly. The slate?grey slab on the granite counter, beside the fruit bowl where Greg had banished the wine bottle. The decorative lemons glowed under the kitchen light like they were judging her life choices.
She had left the device anchoring her existence next to decorative lemons.
“Fantastic,” Jane said. “Inspired.”
She stood.
If she went back out, she had to explain.
If she explained, she paid.
If she didn’t get it, she paid anyway.
She laughed once. Sharp. A sound with corners.
“Fun maze.”
The hallway was dark. Kitchen light cut a golden trapezoid across the floor. Greg laughed. Sarah said something she couldn’t catch. Greg laughed again, softer, like he was leaning on the counter and smiling at her.
Jane swallowed.
“Just walk,” she whispered. “In and out. Be a ghost.”
She crossed the threshold.
---
She entered the kitchen like a crime scene.
The laughter cut off.
Not abruptly—more like someone pressed pause with a guilty thumb.
“Oh,” Sarah said. “Hey.”
Greg straightened a little, still leaning on the counter. “You good?”
“Hey,” Jane said. Too loud. “Sorry, I just—”
She stopped.
Her voice hit a wall of her own making.
The tablet sat where she remembered it. Innocent. Heavy. Hers.
It looked like it had been placed there by a director who wanted to ruin her night.
She reached for it.
Greg’s hand landed first.
“Whoa,” he laughed. “What is that?”
Jane froze. Her brain tried to assemble a sentence and produced static.
“It’s… work.”
“Work?” Sarah asked. She tilted her head. “Like… your work?work? Or your secret?project work?”
Jane blinked. “Yes.”
Greg laughed. “Cool. Love a confident answer.”
He turned the tablet over in his hands.
“It’s warm.”
Jane’s heart spiked.
Her pulse hit her throat like a fist.
“Please don’t,” she said. Too sharp.
Greg’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh—okay.”
He set it down immediately, palms up like he’d been caught touching museum glass.
Sarah watched Jane carefully. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” Jane said. “It’s just—sensitive equipment. It doesn’t like being handled.”
Greg grinned. “Okay, James Bond.”
Sarah elbowed him lightly. “Stop.”
“I’m just saying,” Greg said, “if this thing explodes, I want credit for noticing it was warm.”
“It’s not going to explode,” Jane said.
Greg shrugged. “You say that, but you also said the wine bottle was ‘structurally sound’ and then it tried to assassinate the floor.”
Sarah snorted. “It did bounce.”
“It did not bounce,” Jane said. “It—shifted.”
Greg nodded solemnly. “Shifted. Right. A tactical repositioning.”
Jane grabbed the tablet.
It chimed.
UNAUTHORIZED CONTACT LOGGED
The floor tilted.
89%
Sarah frowned. “Is it supposed to do that?”
“Yes,” Jane said. “No. It’s—just a log. It logs things. It’s fine.”
Greg leaned in a little. “Is it like… a work iPad? Or a… government iPad?”
Jane stared at him. “What is a government iPad.”
“You know,” Greg said. “Like an iPad but with consequences.”
Sarah laughed. “Greg, stop interrogating her.”
“I’m not interrogating,” Greg said. “I’m gently gathering context.”
Jane clutched the tablet. “It’s fine. It’s just… work. Prototype. Stress test. Very boring.”
Sarah’s smile softened. “You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.”
Greg nodded. “Yeah. We’re just messing around.”
Jane nodded too quickly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t interrupt,” Sarah said. “We were just talking about—”
She glanced at Greg.
Greg grimaced. “The lasagna thing.”
Jane blinked. “The what.”
Sarah sighed. “Greg thinks lasagna is a personality.”
Greg held up a finger. “I said it can be a personality. There’s a difference.”
Jane stared. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Exactly,” Sarah said. “Thank you.”
Greg pointed at her. “You’re both cowards.”
Jane forced a smile. “I’m just tired.”
Sarah’s expression shifted—concern, curiosity, something else. “Are you sure?”
If she answered, she paid.
If she didn’t, she paid.
“Yeah,” Jane said. “Long day.”
Greg nodded. “If you need anything—water, snack, emotional support lasagna—just yell.”
Sarah groaned. “Stop saying lasagna like it’s a lifestyle.”
“It is,” Greg said. “It absolutely is.”
Jane backed toward the door. “Thanks. I’m good.”
She closed it behind her.
The laughter didn’t resume.
Jane slid down the wall. The paint was cool against her back, grounding in the worst possible way.
89%
“Don’t,” she whispered. “You don’t get to charge me for that.”
The tablet was warm and silent.
She pressed ROLL BACK.
---
REFRAME
Jane thought resets were for mistakes.
They were also for moments the world noticed her too clearly.
