Chapter 6: Divorce Papers and Dinner

I slam the door, pull out the deed to the butcher shop from the top of the cabinet. During the day, I’d already talked to several shop owners, planning to sell the shop. Everything in the subtitles is coming true, one by one. Someone’s already searching for Caleb in the streets. If I don’t want to end up like that, I have to leave.

I take out paper and a pen, spreading them on the table. During the day, I asked the bookstore owner: according to current law, if husband and wife want to split, there has to be divorce papers.

Caleb cares most about his reputation. To keep him from clinging stubbornly, I plan to write up the divorce papers first.

The pen feels awkward in my hand, the edge of the table digging into my hip as I stare at the blank page. My reflection stares back at me in the window—hard eyes, stubborn jaw, hair pulled back with a rubber band. I wonder if Caleb will even care, or if he’ll just walk out like he walked in: head held high, not looking back.

But I can’t write. My handwriting is ugly, ink blotting onto the paper. I don’t even know what to say.

There’s a knock at the door—twice. Caleb pushes it open, his tone indifferent: "Dinner’s ready."

I don’t look up. He couldn’t even boil water or cook at first. Luckily, he learned fast. If it weren’t for those subtitles, I might really have thought…

His shadow falls across the table, the scent of garlic and fried onions drifting from the kitchen. The TV in the next apartment is playing a baseball game, muffled cheers drifting through the thin walls. Outside, the sun dips below the grain silos, setting the whole street aglow with gold. I grip the pen tighter, swallowing the lump in my throat. One last meal, maybe. One last quiet night before the story catches up with both of us.

Outside, sirens wail in the distance. I wonder if they’re coming for me—or for him.