It was long bright daylight when I woke, and I was cold and clear, knew there were things I had to do to keep the sickness from getting worse. I pulled myself up to the sink again and filled a big glass with water, setting it when it was full on the counter beside the sink and sliding back to the floor for rest.

When I was able, I reached for the glass, got it safely down beside me; I should take some kind of food as well, I thought, but it wasn’t possible, the water was as much as I could manage.

Pushing the glass very carefully ahead of me, I started back. At the same rise, which seemed to me now so huge, between the kitchen and the little hallway into the living room, I had to lift the glass and spilled a little water, just a few drops. Slowly, painfully, I continued, crawling, halting, until finally I was in a doorway. I could see my bed, enormous and white, far away as through the wrong end of a telescope. I pushed harder, keeping my eyes on the bed, the goal, and then I was beside it, left the glass of water on the floor and pulled myself up, the greatest effort so far, until my head and chest were on the bed and then one leg, and then I rolled, an enormous heave, and all my body was on it, and I didn’t remember any more.

It could have been that I lost days then; it could have been also that I simply blacked out for a few moments. When I did wake up I was terribly thirsty, terribly weak, and it was some minutes before I remembered the water beside the bed, and was grateful that I had thought to bring it back. I held myself to only a few mouthfuls, remembering the hard journey, wanting to conserve what I had to avoid another.

I felt stronger. I was able to pull back the covers and slide under them; for a long time I was awake, looking up at the ceiling. And then I lost track again.