Stephen was saying something, the lights were flickering. Highlighters had lifted off Ayanna’s desk into the air. Stephen made her drink some Gatorade. He kept a hand on her wrist. It was gentle, like he was trying to feel her pulse. She tried to focus on what she was drinking but had never thought blue Gatorade had a taste beyond soft salt and soft sugar. The way he was holding her wrist made Ayanna feel like he loved her. It wasn’t extraordinary, though. Every time someone gently touched her, to let her know her bag was unzipped or to steer her away from some obstacle, it elicited that same whoa-are-they-in-love-with-me feeling. I must be lonelier than I could ever understand, Ayanna thought. Stephen was talking to her in a low, soft voice, asking her if they needed to go to the ER. She wanted to call Felix on the phone and tell him everything she had just experienced. Stephen promised he would never tell anyone about this. It was too weird.

“Did I say anything?” Ayanna asked.

“You said a lot.” His eyes were wide. Stephen looked like the kids in afterschool specials who had just seen their friends take too much LSD and jump off a bridge.

“Did I say any names?”

“You said Marlie Nelson and Liana Evans.”

She tried to stand up. Felt as if her legs were across the room and kept sitting. She asked him to write the names down for her, then eased herself down to the rug again. Jane seemed asleep, a small smile on her face, even breaths, arms and legs relaxed. For a moment, it looked like her desk lamp was floating in the air. Ayanna shook her head and shut her eyes. The room spun, she walked again elsewhere in her memories, calling her sister’s name.

When Ayanna woke, the sun was setting, and the little lamp was fighting against the growing dark, making a puddle of golden light around them. Stephen was ordering a pizza. Jane was crying and typing something on her phone. In Ayanna’s hand was a pen. Next to her was a notebook. Over and over, she had written the name Marlie. Ayanna turned the page. In a mix of her print and old-fashioned cursive, loopy and lovely, were pages of text.

“Did I write this?” She knew the answer but hoped to be wrong.

“Yes, and it scared the shit out of me,” Stephen said. “You were writing but your eyes were closed. Sometimes, you spoke but the words were mushed together. It was the longest hour of my life.”

“An hour,” Ayanna muttered. She remembered at most ten minutes.