He looks at me through his lashes, with something like relief in his posture. “The good old days?”

“God, no. They were absolutely terrible. But a different type of terrible.” I hesitate. “And a different type of good, maybe.” I reach out to him. “Sit with me? You don’t have to come too close. But I figured we could both use a break.”

He sags down onto the floor. His shoulders drop. The tension around his jaw dissipates, and he rests his arms on his knees. “I’d like that. I’d really like that.”

“Have you slept at all lately?” I cling to the side of the bed to stop myself from joining him on the floor. From letting our shoulders touch and our fingers intertwine. I hunger for his touch so badly, it’s like a physical ache, a gnawing inside me.

He smiles crookedly. “I’ve finally learned to fall asleep when it isn’t quiet outside. Apparently the trick is to exhaust yourself beyond measure. I’ve slept. But I dream about those soldiers and their guns. I have nightmares about the people I’ve lost crawling out of the graves we dug.”

I don’t know what’s worse. Not sleeping enough or dreaming too much. I try to steer the conversation in another direction. “What do you think the world will look like when all of this is over?”

“If there’s a world left by the end of it, you mean?”

“Wow, bitter much?” I’m not used to that. Not from him.

He closes his eyes and doesn’t speak for such a long time that I worry he’s fallen asleep. When he finally does answer, his voice is distant. “I hope there are still ice cream parlors. Do you know that’s what I miss most? Before I ended up with my foster family, I lived with my sister, Ashley, in a small apartment above the pharmacy where she worked. It was barely big enough for her and too cramped for the both of us, but we made do for almost a year. She wasn’t great at taking care of me, but every Friday after work, she’d take me to this tiny frozen custard place. Each week, we tried a different flavor. Vanilla custard. Birthday cake. Mango gelato. Mint chocolate chip. We had three flavors left on the menu by the time I was taken away from her. Those first few nights in foster care, I repeated the flavors to myself, over and over and over.”

“How old were you?” I ask softly.

He scrunches up his face. “Six.”

“What were the flavors?”

“Lime. Toffee. Stracciatella.” The words have a singsong quality to them, and I wonder how often he still repeats them. My stomach growls at the thought of it. “If the world ever goes back to normal, I want to go back to her. And taste those flavors of ice cream.”

“Do you know if she’s—” I stop myself. “That sounds good.” I rock back and forth on the bed, my fingers still clutching the edge. “I’d like that for you.”