Nick takes me back to the bank. I remember that much.

He gives me a bottle of water and makes me drink as much as I can. He wipes my face, puts a new mask over my mouth, and gets me a change of clothes. I’m too tired to register the embarrassment of just being in my sports bra and boxers, open wounds creeping across my stomach and thighs. Nick doesn’t linger on my body. I am reminded of Jesus and the leper, and Nick helps by not turning away in disgust.

When I’m finally presentable, my crumbling body hidden under bandages and clean clothes, Nick boosts me through the bank window and sits me on the floor of the copy room. I’m so lightheaded, I’m going to pass out. I need to say something, but how do I even start? I made a bunch of really, really bad decisions and this is all my fault, please don’t be mad? I am divine retribution, but I’m also just a scared little kid, and God, why would you call me your friend? I grind my jaw and try to breathe past my massive tongue. I’m not getting enough air. Or maybe I’m hyperventilating.

Nick crouches beside me and says, “What happened,” and it’s not a question because it doesn’t need to be.

I open my mouth to speak but can’t.

Nick watches for a moment, then scratches that little spot under his eye. “It’s okay,” he says. “I have trouble talking sometimes too.” He takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t want him to go. I reach for him, but he pushes my hand away.

“It won’t take long,” he says, and leaves.

His coat smells like him. It smells like all of us, like sweat, musty closets, and smoke, but it smells like him. Like he’s spent too much time with mothballs and old paper. I bury my face in the sleeve.

Nick comes back with a plastic grocery bag that rattles when he moves.

“I know it’s immature of me,” he says, sitting across from me and unpacking the bag. It’s full of beads. Bright plastic pony beads, all the colors of the rainbow and then some. He sets one large container between us and clicks it open. “But when I have a meltdown, I make these. It helps.” Out comes a handful of string. “I’m glad it survived the fire.”

He takes the bead lizard out of his pocket. The one with the gaudy yellow and blue beads and with bite marks on the toes.

“I can show you,” he says. “If you want.”