When I didn’t come out for dinner later that evening, it wasn’t because I was vying for attention (I’d given up on that as quickly as I’d tried for it) but because I felt nauseous—just enough to keep me prostrate and miserable. The house was nearly silent; there was only the soft timpani roll of the air conditioner. Eventually I heard the clinking of silverware, and then a flow of unruffled conversation that could only have been coming from the television.

He tapped on my door sometime after that. I didn’t answer. The doorknob was locked but was made with a small hole in the middle so that a nail could be pushed into it in case of an emergency, and a few minutes later I heard the sliding and poking of the nail, then the click of the lock giving way. I was lying on the bed, on my side, with my back to the door. Suddenly, I was afraid of him: he was so calm and smart and direct; how could he not have realized what was going on with me? I felt as if he were a magician, and that he was about to guess all the cards I was holding. But he didn’t speak. The mattress dipped behind me as he settled his slight weight onto it. His hand reached around and in the hollow of my stomach he dropped one of those odd little cigar-shaped snacks he’d collected over the years: a waxy, vaguely chocolate rod called a Space Food Stick.