She’d helped me up to my room—a painfully slow process that involved her carrying a trash can and me retching every time I tilted my head a millimeter to the right or left. Once there, she helped me change into a pair of pajamas, which meant she saw me naked, but I didn’t care. My old high school’s marching band could have watched me change, and I wouldn’t have cared. Caring took energy. All my energy was being forcibly expelled from my body.

Then she’d rolled up my sleeves, put a soft headband in my hair to keep it away from my gross mouth, and set up the bathroom with everything a person needs to comfortably die of barfing: A thick towel for me to kneel on in front of the toilet. A box of tissues. And, in a gesture that struck me as almost a joke, a cup of water—as if I was ever going to ingest anything again.

At some point she’d managed to clean herself up, too, and now there was no indication that she’d ever been in any state other than her usual hard-won perfection.

Now she leaned over and wiped my forehead and the back of my neck with a cold, wet washcloth, which felt like a light shining down from heaven.

“Would you like to get in bed?” she asked.

Would you like to train for a marathon? Would you like to multiply two eight-digit numbers in your head?

I tried to shrug, but it threw off my equilibrium and made me heave again.

“No,” I croaked.

I could feel her watching me. Then she left.

My misery was so great that it overshadowed the emotional storm I’d been caught in downstairs. There comes a point where your body just takes over and your brain shuts down. Any attempt to think made me feel weak and desperately tired.

Still, left alone in the bathroom, I felt a wash of sadness. I’d been abandoned.

Then the door opened again, and Laura came in carrying a pillow and a stack of blankets.

“Here you go,” she said gently, arranging a makeshift bed on the floor. “Maybe you can get comfortable.”

With her help, I scooched onto the bed and then verrrrrry slowly lay down. The softness of the pillow and the coolness of the fabric made me want to weep.

Laura sat down on the tile next to me, and using only her fingertips, she softly combed through my sweaty hair while I tried feverishly to form words of apology for my earlier rudeness.

“Shhh, poor Margot,” she whispered. “Poor, sick Margot.”

It felt heavenly.

“By the way,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry, but when I was washing your clothes, I accidentally put your phone through the wash cycle. It’s ruined, but we’ll get you a new one.”