(We’re back in the room we visited earlier. Cora and Sam, the teen guitarist, who clutches his axe nervously, have ended up next to each other.)
CORA
Hey.
SAM
Hey.
CORA
You OK?
SAM
It’s not my blood. I’m not really sure whose it is.
CORA
(Beat.)
Sorry, that was a stupid question.
SAM
No–thanks for asking.
(Beat.)
In case, you know… I just want to say sorry.
CORA
For what?
SAM
For all the texts.
CORA
Yeah.
SAM
I’m surprised you didn’t block me.
CORA
I did. Thirty-eight in one day was kinda my limit.
SAM
That’s hilarious–well, not hilarious, but funny–not funny ha ha but funny weird–’cause that’s exactly when I stopped. After the 38th. Anyway, I’m sorry for everything. My new therapist says I should write you a letter, so if we get out of here–
CORA
You don’t have to write me a letter. I mean, you can, but you don’t have to–not for me.
SAM
I’m going to. I’m sorry it took this for me to say I’m sorry.
(Beat.)
I bet Brian doesn’t send you 38 texts in a day.
CORA
Seriously?
SAM
Sorry. I’m just a little freaked out right now, so I’m more manic than usual.
CORA
(Beat.)
I usually text him.
SAM
But he texts you back, right?
CORA
That’s not your–
SAM
Sorry. You’re right. I’ll shut up. We’re probably supposed to be quiet anyway, wait for the next announcement.
CORA
(Beat.)
He doesn’t really text a lot.
SAM
Oh. But he texted you today, right?
CORA
He texted me back. He’s in history. In 117. They’re all OK so far.
SAM
That’s good.
(Beat.)
I’d have texted you first.
CORA
I know.
SAM
I’d take your bullet.
CORA
Please don’t say that.
SAM
OK.
(Beat. She leans her head against his shoulder.)