Embarrassingly, she hadn’t even really been thinking about her neighbors, about what she’d say to them. But of course she’d have to find some way to explain, and she would be a model patient; she would do exactly what the doctor ordered. She’d deal with her own feelings about Donny—and what she’d learned about him—privately.

“I meant what I said before, back at the start of this. I don’t mean to cause you any trouble. Or anyone who lives here. I’m a responsible person. I’m a practical person.”

The way he said it—she got the sense that he really needed to believe it. Like he had some reason to doubt it, even though for the whole time she’d known him, he’d always seemed like both. That hot bowl had been real practical, for example. Drinking water, that was something responsible people were always into.

Her face heated with memories—welcome-wagon schemes and flower crowns and poetry scrolls, emails to reporters and crying over kittens and drooling on this poor, beleaguered man. She felt like the most irresponsible, impractical person alive.

“I know that,” she said. “And I’m sorry about . . . everything. All the food, and the poetry. I’ll stop. And I’ll—I’ll get that article canceled, I promise.”

He was quiet for a long time, and then he said, his voice soft again, “So far as sabotage goes, it was all pretty clever, Nora. I might even miss it.”

She had to bite her lip to keep from another irresponsible bout of tears. Maybe that decongestant gave her PMS. That was definitely it, she decided (impractically).

He moved then, came around to her side of the bed and lifted her water glass. “I’ll go get you some more before I go. You should take another dose of medicine, too. But better if you do it with breakfast.”

“No, that’s okay,” she said, too quickly, finally finding the energy to halfway sit up. “You don’t have to do anything else. I’m going to get up for the day. Early riser, and all that.”

He set down the water glass, a clink of finality. “You’re sure?”

“Definitely sure. I feel loads better.” False, she thought. Now you feel worse. Differently worse.

“All right. I’ll . . .” He paused, seemed to rethink whatever he was going to say. “I’ll see you,” he finished, exactly like his first golden-hour goodbye.

He turned to go, and she held herself still, waiting. She definitely wasn’t going to get up, not yet. Four a.m. could honestly go fuck itself. She was done with it. She was going to lie back down as soon as she heard her front door shut behind him and sleep for as long as she could.

But he didn’t go.

Instead, he turned back around and held out his hand.