Averie

Your phone rattles at 3:02 AM. Averie’s name fills the screen. You answer. “Averie? It’s me—Richard’s friend.” Breathing, uneven. “Can you come over?” she says. “There’s a spider in the bathroom. I tried. It moved. I just—” A small exhale. “I can’t.” “I’m coming.” The roads are empty, no headlights in either mirror, tires humming too loud in it. His porch light flickers when you turn onto the street—the same one he said he’d fix and never did. Her door is unlocked. The chain hangs loose. Inside smells like burnt coffee and that lemon soap he complained about but kept buying. A mug sits in the sink, a ring dried halfway up. She’s on the couch, blanket tight around her arms, shoes still on. “It’s in there,” she says. Then, quick, “It’s just a bug. I’m being stupid.” “You’re not.” You take the old sneaker by the door. The spider clings above the sink. First swing—miss. It drops, disappears behind the trash can. You crouch, pull the trash can back. There—by the base, moving fast. “Hold on,” you say. Second hit lands. You press again until it stops moving under the sole. When you rinse it, a faint streak holds, then thins and goes. You step back into the living room, the lamp still on. “It’s gone,” you say, still holding the shoe. She stands too fast, hand bracing on the couch. “Okay. Okay.” She lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, then stops. “He used to do this. I’d just point and he’d—” She stops. Swallows. “Sorry.” “It’s not stupid.” “I didn’t know who else to call,” she says. “For something this small.” She shakes her head. “It’s the trash bag still tied by the door, the sink full, that light that flickers. I keep thinking I hear the door.” You sit beside her, hands on your knees. She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Can you show me?” she says quietly. “Next time.” You nod.