Exposure Therapy

There’s something about thresholds. The beginning. The entrance point. The absolute limit. If Danny were a more poetic person, he could put these thoughts into words. String together portal and hunger and would you still love me into something painful and maybe even beautiful. And somewhere in it would be something about thresholds.

But English is one of his worst classes for a reason, so instead he stands at the kitchen counter, staring down at a plate wrapped in foil and illuminated by the soft blue glow of the stove clock, which says it’s just past two a.m. Monday morning.

The plate is cold. The kitchen is dark. And there’s an unread text on his phone from five hours ago asking him to come home for dinner.

Or, Danny's parents start paying attention.