“You don’t feel well?” she said.

I shook my head. I no longer had a headache, but my stomach gurgled, and it felt as if something moved about my insides.

“You were making a lot of noise in your sleep,” Paige said.

“Did Mommy hear me?”

“No, she’s gone. She’s been at Grammy’s.”

“Don’t tell her,” I said.

“Tell her what?”

“Listen, just don’t tell her.”

And then I pushed Paige aside and burped and gagged off the side of the bed. Paige grabbed the wastebasket but I told her no.

“It won’t come up,” I said.

“David,” Paige said. “You’re freaking me out. Why are you sick?”

“Listen,” I said, and I told her what happened. Paige stopped rubbing my scalp and instead stared at me, her face scrunched up like she was trying to make out something in the distance. I ended the story by asking, “Am I going to die?”

Paige laughed and shook her head. “How many cigarettes did you smoke?”

“I lost track after fourteen.”

“Fourteen!”

“Am I?” I said.

“No,” she said. “You got pretty sick from the nicotine.”

Paige went to the kitchen and brought me back a ginger ale.

“Just sip it and burp,” she said and started for the door.

“Where you going?” I asked.

“To smoke a cigarette and get ready for work.”

While she smoked in the bathroom and combed her hair—the snapping of tiny brown knots—I sipped the ginger ale in bed. The condensation dripped off the can onto my shirt and seeped cold through the cotton onto my chest.

Every few minutes Paige came in and checked on me. I had to pee already, and even though I was starting to feel better, I knew if I got up my stomach would spin out of control.

Mom came home, and Paige met her in the hallway. I could smell their smoking.

“Aren’t you late?” Mom said, and she didn’t let Paige answer. “Look what my mother gave me. Four silver necklaces, this gold locket, this silver watch, and . . . ” She stopped, rummaging through a paper bag. “Look at these rings. How much you think I’d get?”

“I can’t pay you more because you’re my mother,” Paige said.

“But the watch is in great condition.”

“It’s stainless steel,” Paige said.

Mom crinkled the bag. I didn’t think she liked Paige’s job. Actually, I thought Mom hated that Paige had a job while Mom didn’t.

Paige came to say good-bye. She stood in my doorway, wearing black pants and a red blouse.

“See ya later,” she said, and then she laughed and mouthed, “Feel better.”

When Paige was gone, Mom came down the hallway and into my room.

“Why are you in bed?” Mom said.

“I was tired.”

“Too tired to fill your grandmother’s wood box?”

“She said never mind about the wood,” I said.

“Why are you fibbing? Grammy said you didn’t even show up. Where were you?”

I sat in bed, and I felt nauseated. “I was there,” I told her. “Grammy wasn’t herself.”