Shifting in bed to find the remote was agony. Bones popped and nerves shouted at her to stop.

Tomorrow would be a bad feels day. She really had overdone it. The bad feels would sit on her chest like a demon for more than just a day. They would leer at her from dark corners. Wait for her when she stumbled into the bathroom at night. Whisper terrifying words in her ear just as she was about to fall asleep.

Why can’t I find a middle ground? Why does it always have to be all or nothing?

A cool breeze wafted through the living room, making her shiver. She wiped her brow and her hand came away damp.

Her fever was back to boot. Of course it was. But at least it wasn’t that goddamn microwave feeling. That was a fever of an entirely different order.

She popped a couple of Tylenol with a nerve-blocker chaser. Her fentanyl patch was due to be changed tomorrow. There was never much left in it by this point in the cycle, which helped the pain waltz right in, front and center.

There was no harm in slapping on a new one a day early, but the patches were in the bedroom.

She could call out for Andrew and he’d be up in a flash. He’d get her a new patch and fix her something to eat. Yesterday’s argument would be forgotten while he took care of her. Just by saying his name loud enough to be heard one room away, she could be fed and in less pain, comfortable enough to fall back to sleep.

So why wasn’t she doing it?

Because you’re a stubborn bitch. It might not be your finest quality in Andrew’s eyes, but it’s the one trait that’s kept you going this long.

It would be the thing that would keep her from having to undergo chemo.

How many doctors had told them her will alone had gotten her through several life-threatening situations? Enough for her to believe it, which was why she kept her stubborn streak honed to a fine, sharp edge. It was her last defense against the thing she didn’t care to think about.

Lost in her thoughts, she barely heard the first plink on the roof of the house. It was so light, so benign, she just assumed it was a falling pine cone.

The second was louder, loud enough to get her full attention. It sounded as if something had hit the roof directly over her head.

Could be a bird. Maybe it dropped a little something on the way to its nest.

She was looking for something to watch when a snatch of a lesson from the sixth grade came crawling from the depths of her memory.

Birds don’t fly at night.

Wait, was that true?