“The last four years have been hard,” I say slowly. “Really hard.”

I close my eyes, and my mouth takes on a mind of its own. “It’s been sad and awkward, like really awkward sometimes, and annoying, which I know is bad to say, but in a way I feel like I’ve been asleep for most of it, like I kind of shut down because it was too much or something.” I keep going, feeling safe behind my closed eyelids. “And other days it’s totally fine and I think we all kind of forget that no one can predict this disease. He could live with it for years or he could deteriorate and die in the next couple of months and, I don’t know, everything is so up in the air.”

I wipe my eyes. The more things I say, the more things I have to say, as if all the words have been strung together like pearls and I am throwing them up one bead at a time. “Sometimes I just want to be the one being taken care of because it’s stressful. And I know that’s selfish, but like I never know what I’m doing, and I just want a normal relationship with my parents where I can hate them sometimes without worrying that they’re gonna croak the next minute.”

I trail off and open my eyes. He’s typing furiously. When I clear my throat, it makes no sound, given that it’s rivaling the Kalahari in humidity. “I need a break,” I decide. When I go to stand, my feet are pins and needles. I plop back down and fall against my bed.

“Do you need help?” he asks gently.

“Sure.”

“There’s so much stuff here, Cham,” he says, closing his laptop, then standing in front of me. He holds his hands out awkwardly and I reach for him. Our fingers touch the way toes touch the water when it’s freezing—that is, like trying not to touch at all.

“Um, here,” he says, holding his arm out to me instead. I grab it quickly and stand, launching forward, and he has to grab onto me.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, good, thanks.” His hands are big around my shoulders, and I become most parts electricity. It’s not a personal reaction, it’s a dermatological reaction. “You can let go,” I say, and I’m a little disappointed when he does.

As we come down the stairs, I hear a voice that doesn’t belong to my mom or my dad or any of the aides. An elevator drops into my pelvis. By the last step I can see the kitchen, and everyone in the kitchen can see me.

“Hey, Abigail,” I say as nonchalantly as I can muster. She’s sitting across from my mom at the table, and my mom has the sanitary wipes out. God help us.

“Hey, Cham—and… Brendan?” Abigail says.

“Hey.” The four of us orbit each other’s awkwardness until finally Abigail takes over the situation, which is what Abigail is best at. She stands up and clacks her fingernails together. The acrylics sound like music, but less melodious and more anxiety-inducing.