Viola has always liked climbing into small spaces. The pressure on all sides serving as a reminder of her presence in her own body, outside of her own mind. She'd read somewhere that cockroaches like to be touched, too. They're positively thigmotactic—contact seeking. And like a roach, Viola threads her arm through his and clasps his bicep with her free hand, drawing him in until their shoulders are pressed tight together. Her head clears, a little. Even with Uriah's soft swaying, she finds it easier to maintain their path.

"To go home with somebody else," she corrects and takes another drag from her cigarette, exhaling carefully out of the corner of her lips away from him. There had been something distinctly desperate about this party, though Viola doesn't understand why. "We're all here for attention. Not celebration."