Just as I was dragging my arm out from under the pillow, turning my weight on my side, his shape changed, came much closer, his hand stretching for the cord of the light. I moved my own hand forward as he did it, set on stopping him. One of my nails caught the underside of his forearm: there must have been a tiny jagged edge, no bigger than the end of a pin.

Shit! What was—? Put the light on.

I fumbled for it, the small click, light over us at last, Jake’s head bent, examining his arm, eyes narrowed.

I moved forward instinctively, as I would move to the children when they had hurt themselves, to reassure, apply the soothing balm of motherliness. The scratch was superficial, pale pink, but there nonetheless. I moved to touch it, and Jake’s whole body startled, as though he was being woken from a brief, deep sleep.

His voice was wounded, little-­boy tender.

What did you do that for?

It was an accident, Jake. I couldn’t see.

It was becoming difficult to speak again, I noticed. There was something in my throat preventing it, rising up like an Adam’s apple, blocking the way. I wanted something from him, but if he said it, I thought I might actually vomit, right there on the bed. The blockage would come out, I imagined. The talk-­stopper. I would not be able to stop screaming.

I came to talk to you, Jake was saying now. He was saying something else.

I’m sorry, Luce. I don’t know how else to say it. I shouldn’t have done it. It was just sex, I swear. So stupid.

I realized my hands were creeping up, past my neck, towards the sides of my head. I felt the softness of my hair, pushed it to one side. I put the flats of my fingers against my ears. Shook myself from side to side, felt the heaviness of my skull, this weight that I carried around, day after day.

No, no no, no, I seemed to be saying. I was the child now, my body curled and soft in my nightdress, my feet soles up, moist under the warmth of the covers. I clenched my teeth. A tantrum.

Please shut up. Get out. Single syllables were all that could get through, mangled, barely complete.

I just want to help you, he was saying, somewhere in the room. He was off the bed now. I could feel him, tall and oppressive, by the bookshelves or the dressing table. A shifting space, a ghost.

Help me? Help me?