I PUT THE key in the lock, tiptoe my way up the steps, hope the owner ain’t waiting for me with the cops.

Cricket asleep in my bed. She quiet as a mouse, still blocked in by pillows when I get in. Good. She don’t make a sound when I kick my shoes into a corner, hurry and change out my clothes in the dark. I think about changing her diaper, then decide not to. She did me a solid, slept the night away, ain’t get me in trouble—so I ain’t gonna trouble her neither. I lie down on the floor to go to sleep. I don’t mean to cry, but I do. I’m tired, I guess. Tired of playing grown, tired of changing diapers, being broke, tired of everybody getting what they want except me. Lying on my back, I think about Maleeka. What would she do? Go home, probably. But I can’t do that.

Sad, I crawl into bed beside her. Put my arm around her. That’s when I notice that she burning up. I touch her forehead, her legs and hands. They on fire too. So is the part of the bed she lying on. I run and turn on the lights. See her eyes crusted over, glued shut with green pus in the corners.

It’s a bug maybe. Could be something worse. What I’m gonna do if she need to go to the hospital?

In the bathroom, I pull down her pants and diaper, lay her belly down across my lap. “This gonna hurt. But we need to know.” I pat her back for a while. Tell her everything will be okay. Slide the thermometer in and close one eye. She too sick to cry or fight me. “A hundred and three,” I say, holding the thermometer up to the light.

Once on TV, I saw them put a baby in ice water to get her fever down. I plug up the tub. Turn the cold-water faucet on high. Shivering, with water up past my stomach, I hold her tight. She limp as lettuce, whining like a kitten I found almost frozen in the snow one time. It died the next day.