.

Night is a long, unbroken sprawl, followed by another. And another.

It’s been four days since Marshall lay on the couch looking up at me with hot, bleary eyes. Four days since I sat next to him and touched his neck and he rested his hand on my thigh. Four days since I’ve seen him. Since I got even the barest suggestion of a good night’s sleep.

I’ve tried all the conventional wisdom—hot milk and boring books. A double dose of Benadryl, which left me numb, thirsty, and still very much awake.

The candle burns on my nightstand, but no matter how dutifully I count, nothing happens. After two hours and no luck, I admit that persistence isn’t accomplishing anything, and blow it out.

—

Monday was supposed to be the day that sent everything clanking back to normal. No one can stay sick for more than seventy-two hours, right? That’s impossible. It’s inefficient.

But he still isn’t at school. The assignment in Spanish is a study guide, but it’s just to pass the time. We don’t have to turn it in because then she might have to grade them. Sometimes when I blink, the room goes shimmery around the edges. I draw spirals in all the spaces where the -er verbs should go.

The memory of Marshall’s hand on my bare leg has its own kind of secret life. It creeps in, getting mixed up with lagging cross-country times and homework until suddenly, there it is, covering up everything else.