**Kait**

We sit on the floor of our small apartment, the lights dimmed and candles flickering before us. Marcey has her hair pulled back, a bandana resting on her brow. She looks at the candle intently as if trying to glean its secrets.

We’ve been sitting here for at least an hour and have gotten nowhere.

“What exactly are we supposed to be doing?” I ask her impatiently.

“WE,” she says irritably, “are supposed to be meditating.”

“With our ...