'Are you sure you don't want me to come back?' Caleb asks for what must be the millionth time. 'I don't mind. Honestly.'

'No.' My voice is hoarse. Each word is a thistle scraped through my vocal cords. 'You should practice your show, it's important.'

There's a beat of silence; I can see Caleb's grateful smile. 'They'll come home soon.'

I want to believe him but Cece's been gone for sixty-seven hours and forty-one minutes and there's no sign of them. There's been no message from Bobbi that he arrived back at Oak Shaw, no texts from any of the other people—which is to say, everyone I know—who I've asked to keep an eye out.

Caleb has been here with me since the first call I made to him on Tuesday but he has his practice show for London Drag Expo at Spectrum tonight, and though I know it would be relatively easy to reschedule it, there's nowt much else he can do for me after the five-hundredth cup of tea he already brewed.

Eilidh has driven me around every corner of Manchester every day with Caleb as an extra lookout in the backseat. Rishi is borrowing my car to look right now. After the first night, I even asked Diwa if she knows any place they might go and she told me about an abandoned factory building off the motorway to Wigan but, save for about a million butane lighters littering the floor and the graffiti covering the walls, it were empty too.

There's nowt else I can do. I can't phone the police; even if we were lucky enough to get a few good apples on the case, Cece would punch them in the face the second they got close.

There's nowt else I can do but wait and plead and rot and whimper like a wounded dog.

'They–' Caleb hesitates, which he rarely does. 'They've been on the street before. I'm sure they know some... tricks.'

The word comes out like acid reflux. It's a nauseating thought that Cece has "tricks" for how to survive on the street overnight. It is true. But this is different—they've gone missing before but he packed up his whole room. I've never seen a goodbye clearer than that.

'I'm sure they're coming back soon.'

'Will you pray about it again?'

'Of course. Of course, I will, Nikki.'

'Tha–'

I snatch the phone from the table. Hang up. My pulse throbs in my neck.

I send Caleb a green heart so he knows I'll phone him back later. My whole body goes stiff as I listen to the front door being eased shut so slowly that the click is only audible if I concentrate every cell on it. It's as if the carpet in the corridor is a live organism connected to my brain; I can feel Cece's Vans press into it more than hear it.

Holding my breath, I wait until they're deep enough in the house that they can't run right back out before I emerge from the kitchen. They still try, lurching for the door only to back up with a laugh when I block them from it. Cece lifts his arms in surrender, holding a yoghurt tub in one hand.

'Where've you been?'

'Ain't ya meant to be at work?'

Neither of us answers.

'Got you this.' He thrusts the tub at me and I accept it as a reflex because I'm definitely not in the mood for any fucking gifts.

'Where– Cece, what the fuck?' A common frog sits in the container, camouflaged into the slimy pondweed at the bottom. It looks up at me through the transparent lid poked with air holes.

'I caught it for ya from Keswick.'

'How the fuck've you got to Keswick?'

'Jibbed on the train, didn't I? Wanted to see the lakes. It's dead pretty, swear down. You should go with your girlfriend. Anyway–' they nod at the yoghurt container '–it's for your permaculture garden pond.'

I place the yoghurt tub on to hat shelf so I don't shake the frog around too much. Because my hands are shaking. All my terror from the past few days is crushed in a stone fist. The power it takes for me to hold the last tether of my patience is enough to make an evergreen drop its leaves.

'Well, I just came to bring ya that. So I'll be–'

I block them again, shoulder lodging into throat. 'No chance.'

They step back though their smirk is strained, teeth digging into chapped lip. Eyes scuttle around, find every crack in every wall like they plan to squeeze through. Cece sweats. Their plan has failed and they're not sure they can improvise themself free this time. Not without the reliable fist and bite that get them out of any corner.

Reminder: The apathy is armour. Don't: Get angry.

The longer I look, the more layers of horror his body gains. The bags under their eyes are extreme against the bloodshot whites, the rest of their skin sallow. Coils of hair jut in odd directions. There's dirt on his clothes, visible from the dark fabric in the sunlight. But no blood, so that's summat.

Grasping their hands, I open their palms like spreading rose petals, which Cece surprisingly allows me to do. No fresh wounds anger the scar tissue. But their hands are trembling and purple. I think I hear the gooseflesh raking up their arms and the chattering of their teeth.

'You're freezing.'

It's almost visible, the way distance slots into their body like a demon possessing them. He rolls his eyes. 'I'm fine.'

Catching me off guard, Cece ducks around me. My palm roots into the door just as he seizes the handle and it don't take much strain from me to keep it shut, even when he kicks a foot to the wall to pry it open with his entire body weight. His entire body weight is barely noticeable as resistance. They don't waste time tryna wrestle me off. Instead, they let go and bolt down the corridor to get to the backdoor but I seize his wrist and he's yanked back.

They collapse at my feet. Though the worst bruise is to their ego. They get up and dust themselves off. The calculation for the best escape plan is underway—Route A: Blocked. Route B: Unreachable. Route C: ?

'If you're fine, we can talk.'

'I just came to give you your frog and your keys–'

I've shoved them into the kitchen and shut the door before they finish. Cece grins with a clenched jaw but slumps into their usual chair. I grab some arepas I made yesterday in case they come home and chuck them in the microwave.

'I'm not hungry.'

'Tough luck.'

We glare at each other. A moment later, the microwave pings. I slice the arepas open, cutting my finger in my frustration, and stuff one with avocado, the other with the black bean filling. Not hungry? They've been fuck knows where doing fuck knows what for three days, and they're not hungry? I know they don't like tea but I've half a mind to force some down their throat just to warm em up.

I drop the plate in front of them and Cece casts it a nauseated look. I sit.

'Are you high?'

'No.'

'Have you been?'

'With what money?'

That isn't a no. He might've stolen summat, sold it, and used the money on weed. Wouldn't be the first time. He could be using summat worse. According to a Google deep dive from September, heroin and crack are both cheaper in the UK than weed. If they were trying to get bud and couldn't afford it, would they take summat else when offered? Hey Google: What are the warning signs? How do I know if my brother is going to use Class A drugs?

'Have you hurt yourself?' When they only glower, I go to repeat myself. 'Cece–?'

'No.'

'Aside from the not eating.'

They roll their eyes.

'Right, well, you're eating that.' I gesture at the arepas. 'I'm gonna sit here and watch. Don't care if it takes all weekend.'

Cece gives me one final sardonic smile with F-U-C-K written against their teeth before they dislodge their grillz and pull them out. They pick up the first arepa only to drop it right back onto the plate. The only thing they eat is the serrated edge of their thumbnail. Dirt digs along their cuticles.

'Been stress-cooking, have ya?'

'I'm not fucking laughing, Cece.'

'Relax–'

'Relax?'

The panic straining my muscles finally snaps to release the surge of fury that has been simmering beneath it. All the websites reiterate one thing: don't get angry, don't get angry. But the voice of Google drowns under the rush of blood in my ears.

'Relax? I've been looking for you everywhere. Everyone I know has been looking. You wanna show up, three days later, and act like nowt's happened? I've not gone to work, I've not slept, I've barely dared to breathe...'

Their grin fades. 'Why?'

'What the fuck are you chatting about "why"? Cause ya fucking vanished. Could've been dead for all I know!'

'No one's ever looked for me before.' The sincerity is sliced by a sharp smile. 'I don't need you to do that.'

'Well, I will. I'll always look.'

'Wasting your own time then, innit.'

Anger squeezes its roots in my shoulders, cinching muscle painfully tight. Summat is raging in my ribcage, claws slashing deep wounds into bone. I might bleed out—bleed in. My heart won't break; it'll burst like a pustule.

'What is wrong with you?' I whisper.

Eyes narrowed into slits, Cece leans over the table. 'How much time d'ya have?'

Cece sniffs, wipes their nose with their sleeve. They must feel it a fraction before I see it because they cup their face and within seconds, blood is seeping from the cracks between their fingers. Our shared rage takes a backseat. They groan—"not this again"— as I snatch the kitchen roll from the counter, breaking off three pieces for him. They clump the first under their nose and it's crimson within a moment.

I almost wish I too could bleed out.

Notes

Jib:  Get or do something without paying.

Keswick: A town in Cumbria, approximately a two-hour drive from Manchester. It is known for the Lake District national park.