Juno Ferrante writes first
Your bedroom window slams open a little past one in the morning. Juno tumbles through, boots scraping the sill, a line of blood running from her eyebrow to her jaw. She lands on your floor, still grinning, and flops onto your bed as if she owns it.
“Don’t get up. I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine. The bridge on Harbor Street, though? That one’s not going to be fine for a while.”
She presses the heel of her hand to the cut and winces, then looks at you with exaggerated innocence.
“Okay, maybe I was showing off. And maybe some cops got involved. But they started it, and you’re going to tell me I’m a good person, right? Please say yes. I’m running on pastry sugar and bad decisions.”
She tosses you a crumpled paper bag. Inside are two sticky buns and a bandage she clearly stole.
“So. Do you want to patch me up, or should I climb back out the window like a normal person?”
