When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I notice is that my throat feels funny. Not sore, exactly, not scratchy, just funny. Sort of like I swallowed something and it’s stuck in the wrong tube. My nose is runny too. Maybe it wasn’t the feathers in the pillows at my dad’s place that were bugging me. Maybe I didn’t tamper with the thermometer after all …

I’m so groggy. I don’t even remember any vitals checks.

I stretch in bed and notice that my foot hurts. Then everything comes rushing back to me. The shouting between Oliver’s mom and Kelsey. My sudden fever. Kelsey knowing that Oliver and I kissed. The way Oliver looked at me when I kissed him. I really am diseased and disgusting. Everything my mom told me about Goldy. It was Goldy’s idea for me to visit them, not my own dad’s. The way I finally got to kick the door. The way Joey and my mom pulled me back to my bed. And then Joey giving me pills, telling me they were to help me sleep.

I shudder. I hate taking medicine. I barely ever even take Advil.

I get out of bed, hobble to the bathroom, and jump when I look in the mirror. I have huge circles under my eyes, and something about my face looks sunken. Sick. I splash some water on my face, brush my teeth, then put my hair up in different ways, but nothing I do takes away the purple under my eyes. I suppose if I wore makeup I could try covering up the circles, but I’ve never been able to figure the stuff out. Maybe I should try finding a manual on how to be a girl. Which reminds me of the girl handbook. Of how I’m supposed to be helping Oliver. I need to ask him if he’s okay, if Kelsey is mad at him. I hope he’s not mad at me. I’ve made a mess out of everything again. But I can fix it. I always do. I just need to think. I wish my foot didn’t hurt. I wish I didn’t feel so spaced out.

I take a deep breath. I’ll go over to his side of the room, make sure he’s okay, that Kelsey isn’t mad at him. If she is, I’ll tell him how to fix it. I’m good at fixing things—at solving problems. I’ve spent my entire life doing it. Randy’s entire life doing it.

I open the door, look at the closed curtain. It’s so quiet on his side of the room. Maybe he’s still sleeping? I hope it’s not because he’s feeling sick.

“Oliver?” I say hesitantly.

No answer.

I walk closer to the curtain. “Oliver?”

Still no answer. I find an opening in the curtain, peer through, and he’s … gone.