I look out the window of my room at the hospital hallway. Joey left an hour ago, but he walks by again and waves. It’s funny that now he looks normal to me in his hazmat gear, and when I see him in only his scrubs walking by, he seems out of place to me. It’s like seeing a teacher outside of school, out in the real world. Except that I can’t help but notice he fills out his scrubs nicely.

I feel like I should chase that thought out of my head, but I don’t know why.

I look at the curtain between my bed and Oliver’s. I’m still angry at him for what he said about Goldy, but I also want to talk to him again. He needed my help on the plane, then he got annoying, and then it got weird. I can’t figure him out. He’s an anxious guy for sure, but something tells me it’s not his fault.

But it’s my fault he’s in this mess.

My mom has been texting me, telling me that she heard from my doctors and that she can probably visit soon. I feel itchy and restless, get up and pace around my room. I look at the curtain between my side of the room and Oliver’s again. His TV is on, and I hear the canned laughter of some old sitcom. There is a little patch of sunlight coming from under his curtain. Is he looking out the window? I wonder what he sees out there.

I close my eyes for a second, take a deep breath, and pretend I’m back home in Brooklyn. Last I checked it was almost noon, so I’d be having lunch in the school cafeteria. I pretend I’m sitting with Becca and Jenna, and we’re talking about our spring breaks. They’re telling me they missed me, that it wasn’t the same without me. Then someone else, a girl I don’t know, sits down and says, “If they miss you so much, why aren’t they texting you?”

My eyes snap open, and I grab my phone. I feel itchy and mad again when I see I don’t have any texts from them. I look at the fund-raising page, but the donation amount still sits at ten dollars.

I hear more laughter from Oliver’s TV.

Joey brings lunch in, but he doesn’t stay long, and for some reason this annoys me. I remind myself he has other patients. I pick at the soggy bread on the ham and cheese sandwich, then nibble the cheddar.

I pace some more, make my bed again, reorganize my suitcase, refold the clothes. I miss the warehouse. I miss the open space. I miss talking to Oliver.

I miss Oliver.

I pretend I’m in the cafeteria again. But Becca and Jenna are already gone, and I’m alone.

My eyes snap open as a thermometer is being shoved in my mouth and the blood pressure cuff is being wrapped around my arm. I must have fallen asleep. I look up. It’s not Joey in the hazmat suit this time, but the same grumpy nurse from last night.

She takes the thermometer out, looks at it, takes the cuff off, looks at the screen on her little cart. “Still normal,” she says. She studies me, hand on her hip. “Your temperature should have gone back up by now,” she mutters.

I spend the rest of the afternoon listening to the canned sitcom laughter on Oliver’s side of the room, envious of the characters, of their problems being wrapped up in thirty minutes. Thirty days is so much longer than thirty minutes.