THURSDAY, DECEMBER 6

Mr. Hudson asks where my homework is

and he must be surprised when I laugh, because his eyebrows

shoot up to the middle of his forehead.

I slept for only three hours last night—

the rest of the time I spent shifting,

sure I felt fingers at the edge of my shirt,

prying at the top of the sheet.

My best dreams are about running

so fast the wind can’t catch me.

My worst dreams are about trying to run

and my muscles collapsing in columns of wet cement,

wolves snapping at my heels.

So when Mr. Hudson asks where my homework is

all I can do is laugh because wearing a mask

feels impossible when everything is this wrong.

He asks why I’m laughing and I’m so tired

I’m honest:

For a history teacher,

you’re pretty terrible at learning from it.

I haven’t turned in homework in four weeks—

what the hell makes you think

you’re going to get it today?

He’d been teaching about this or that war

and now bombs drop all over his face.

I’m in ISAP five minutes later,

Mr. West shaking his head, pointing at a seat.

I don’t bother playing spades on my phone.

Aretha Franklin sings me to sleep.