“Marla.” And with that, she went to the door quickly. John walked out with her, and watched uneasily as Jessica got in her car and drove off. Then he went back inside and shut the door, locking and bolting it. A lot of good this will do, he thought as he slipped the chain into place.

“Charlie?” he called softly. He didn’t expect an answer, but he wanted—felt almost compelled—to talk to her. “Charlie, I wish you could hear me,” he went on, going to the bedroom closet and pulling out all two of his other blankets. “I think it’s safer for you to stay where you are than in the bedroom.” He pulled the couch a little farther from the wall, trying to figure out how best to make her more comfortable. At a loss, he grabbed a pillow and leaned down, reaching to remove the blanket that covered her face.

“Sorry I’ve only got the one pillow,” he said, trying not to lose his balance.

“’S okay,” came a muffled murmur from beneath the blanket, and John fell back, tumbling over the seat and barely catching himself before his head hit the floor.

“Charlie?” he cried, then lowered his voice as he climbed back up. “Charlie, are you awake?” There was no answer. This time he did not try to climb into the space behind the couch, and bent over to see. She was stirring, just a little. “Charlie, it’s me, John,” he said, his voice hushed, but urgent. “If you can hear me, hold on to the sound of my voice.” He stopped, as she sat up and pulled the blanket off her face.

He stared down at her, as astonished as the moment when he first saw her. Her face was red, and her hair was sticking to her skin after being under the blanket; her eyes were barely open; she blinked rapidly in the light, looking down and away. John leaped up and rushed to shutter the front window blinds. He closed the bedroom door and pulled the kitchen curtains. The apartment, never bright at its best, was nearly dark. He hurried back to Charlie’s hiding place, grabbed one end of the couch, and pulled it out farther, enough for him to crawl behind with her. She was still sitting, leaning against the wall, but she looked limp, like she wouldn’t be able to do it much longer. He reached out to steady her, but when his hand touched her arm she made a distressed, high-pitched noise, and he drew back instantly. “Sorry. It’s me, John,” he repeated, and she turned her head to see him.

“John,” she said, her voice thin and rasping. “I know.” Her breathing was ragged, and talking seemed to take effort. She reached out feebly with one hand.

“What do you need?” he asked, searching her face. She reached out farther and then he understood; he took her hand.