But what had she seen? I was young and careless. I never asked, though now, years later, I could probably guess.

“So where are we going?” I asked Tom again.

“It’s a surprise, old boy!” he shouted, pressing on the accelerator once more.

Gone Again

I wake up and the hotel room is still dark, but there is a glow around the heavy curtains, so I know I slept later than I wanted to. I sit up in the darkness, rub my eyes, clear my throat. Instinctively, as I have done every morning for the last three months or so, I reach up and gently touch the knot on my head. It feels harder this morning. It feels like it has taken root.

There have been times when the knot makes me feel almost claustrophobic, desperate to rid myself of it. When it was smaller, I considered shaving it off with a razor—anything to flatten that side of my head back to normal. Recently, as it grew, I considered shooting it off.

Yes, I know.

But you have always kept me here.

Thinking of you, I look over at your bed. Strange, because in the darkness your bed appears empty, but that must be because of the way the dim light flattens out the blankets. You must be hidden in there somewhere. I reach over and turn on the light. “Pearl?”

But you’re not there. Your map sits on the desk, partly unrolled. I put my feet down on the rough carpet, stand, walk quickly to the bathroom. You’re not there either. I open the door to our room wide enough so that I can stick my head out and look down the long hall. I don’t see you anywhere.

“Pearl,” I say again, this time with exasperation. You don’t make anything easy.

When I pull back into the room, something is different. The darkness feels heavy, loaded with something that makes me walk quickly to the windows and pull back the curtains. The light erupts, pushing back the shadows. But still, the room makes me feel like a foreigner, like I’m staying somewhere I’m not welcome.

Your shoes are by the bed, side by side. I sweep the blankets away, wondering if it’s possible I overlooked you, if the bed is so soft that you are still there, sunken into the mattress. But no. The bed is empty.

I throw on some clothes, slip on my shoes, and get ready to leave the room. But a wave of nausea hits so heavy that I bend over inside the door and feel my whole body tense. I dash back into the bathroom, bend over the toilet, and throw up, over and over again, without stopping.

Finally, I wipe my mouth with a small hand towel and throw it in the trash. I stare into the toilet, because there it is, a small thread of ruby-red blood among the vomit, and other threads of black. My breath is taken away with how long I might have. One less day than I had yesterday. One day closer to the end of my anytime to three months.