On day forty-seven, her sister broke the door down.
The couch had been growing her.
Her sister ran.
On day twenty-three, she tried to leave. She swung her legs over the edge, planted her bare feet on the hardwood. The couch made a sound like a held breath. Her knees buckled—not from weakness, but from a sudden, immense gravity that pinned her to the cushion. She laughed, a dry, frayed sound. “Fine,” she whispered. “Fine.” anna ralphs couch