Eileen.
I shivered, the wood cold and rough against my flesh, and tried to think, to find courage, to do something; but only one thought was coherent. Eileen. My head began to hum with her name and my body responded to the vibration. Eiii-leeeen. My raw, damp skin and the rise and fall of the deck underneath me trembled at the oscillation—Eiii-leeeenEiii-leeeenEiii-leeeenEiii-leeeenEiii-leeeen—until my senses dissipated in the resonance and all that remained was the hum and my fears. My fear of losing her, of abandoning her, of getting myself stuck in this awful, terrible—
—dream!
My eyes opened, and I squinted in the bright light from the lamp. My head swiveled in every direction as I struggled to quell my terror. Breathe. Focus. Think. My eyes stung, and thick tears made it nearly impossible to see, but there was Eileen, sound asleep beside me. And the laptop, two mugs on the nightstand, my jeans and t-shirt chafing my body, my tangled hair splayed across my arms like electrified wires—Oh, God, my skin. From my scalp to my feet I was ensnared in its tight, combustible trap. Like the strike of a match, one more dream and I would be engulfed.
They had to stop.
Eileen murmured in her sleep, and I fumbled to turn off the light. My stomach lurched with the movement, and I clamped my hand over my mouth, barely managing to leave the room and close the door behind me before I retched. Slimy acid, stained brown from my unfortunate sips of cocoa, puddled on the wood floor—but it took me a few seconds to realize I was lying beside it.
I made an effort to lift myself, but every part of me ached and the slightest movement made me want to vomit again. The flu. How perfect. The wood was blessedly cool, and if I breathed through my mouth, I couldn’t smell my sickness, so I stayed where I was.
Sometime later, I thought I heard a ringing, then a vibrating noise like the buzzing in my nightmare, and panic brought me up to my hands and knees. I couldn’t fall asleep again, but I couldn’t stand. Swaying, I crawled past the stinking mess and made it to the toilet before the dry heaves started. Eons later, threads of blood streaking my spit, I flushed the toilet and lowered myself to the floor. The ceramic tiles were colder than wood and lying there was heaven on my skin, though the unforgiving chill made my bones hurt.
Eventually, though, even that pain wasn’t enough to keep me awake, so I studied a small gap between the tile and the base of the vanity cabinet. It was like a chink in the world I knew, an unnoticed doorway for the tiniest of creatures. Unfortunately, that made me think of bugs, and bug eyes, so I settled on watching the ebb and flow of my hot breath condense across the blue tile.
It was in this inglorious condition that Sal found me.
The front door had been open all this time, and I heard his rapid thumps up the stairs and the cracking force of the screen door being manhandled yet again. I knew how she felt. Alien-handled. A weak snort condensed into a rabbit shape. What was it with me and rabbits?
“Lilith!”
I twitched a couple of fingers at his dirty toes. “Shh-leen.” Translation: Be quiet or you’ll wake her. “Foo.” Leave me alone; I’m disgusting.
He ignored me and knelt at my back, leaning into my personal space to smooth my hair away from my cheek. When I whimpered, he froze.
“Jus’ foo.” I’ll be fine. Go away.
For a few blessed seconds, I thought he’d understood, because he rose and reached over me to take something from the dryer, and then I heard him out in the living room. But like the rest of my night, what came next was awful.
“Dunh!” I protested, but he scooped me up anyway. Every pressure point where his body touched mine was torture, and I held my breath to keep from whimpering.
Without a word, he lowered me onto the sheet he’d draped across the couch, pulling one cool edge over my body. I shivered and gagged, twisting so at least I’d puke on the floor, but I had nothing left in me. I stayed there, my left cheek pressed at the edge of the cushion, just in case.
It was too much to hope that he’d think his good deed was done. Wrinkled khaki knees moved out of sight, and I heard quiet sounds from the kitchen. Not food. Anything but food.
When he came back, I closed my eyes again, but he wasn’t fooled by my attempt at playing possum. He settled on the floor near my head and slid a bulky arm under my neck and shoulders.
“Drink this.”
I cringed away from the spoon against my lips; but like a cruel nurse, he forced his medicine in. Gritty, salty liquid scoured my throat, and I coughed, sending spasms of agony rippling behind my ribs.
He uttered a strange oath, and then something thickly sweet was tipped into my mouth. Honey.
“Now one sip of this.”
I tried to resist, but he alternated salt water and honey until I roused enough to push his hand away.
“No more.” I sounded like a chain smoker, but I did feel a bit better. I cautiously opened my eyes, but he was too close and I looked away.
“Now water,” he urged.
Reluctantly, I let him raise me enough to drink from a glass. The clean fluid in my throat felt wonderful, but the aftertaste in my mouth made me queasy again. Propping a couch pillow under my head, he left me alone for another blissful few seconds, this time running water in the bathroom sink.
When he came back, I frowned at the dripping washcloths in his hands.
“Don’t,” I croaked, but my lack of appreciation didn’t seem to faze him. With soft, sure movements, he wiped my forehead and cheeks, gently patting the
