“I don’t paint my nails.”

“That’s okay.”

She cuts another nail, the clippers snapping.

“I never understood the point.”

“No problem.”

“I bite them.”

“You bite your nails?”

“Yes, I always have.”

She cuts another nail.

“If you paint them, you just have to do it again when it wears off.”

“Whatever you like, my dear.”

As she says this, she trims a nail too short, and it stings. I pull my hand away.

“Oh no! I’m sorry. That hurts, doesn’t it?”

Shelley takes a step back as I examine my finger. It starts to bleed, just a bit. She takes a hold of the finger and squeezes it, holding it tightly. She dabs it with the end of a Q-tip, which she then drops into the small bin. It’s right beside the bin that has the hair clippings in it. It all happens in a blink, and I’m not sure what I’ve just seen.

“At least we know you have good, healthy-looking blood.”

I pull my finger back, bringing it up to my mouth. I suck the sore spot, looking at her. The shade of her lipstick is red. Bright red. Brighter than it has been, I think. Did she just put it on?

I feel a drip of sweat fall from my armpit, trickle down my side.

Can one person’s blood be more healthy-looking than another’s?

With my freshly washed cut hair and trimmed nails, I’m standing at my desk. Shelley brought me back to my room and said I could start working again.

“Your hair looks great,” she said as she left. “Good luck.”

I bring a hand up to my forehead. Not to touch my hair but to feel the scab from my fall. I haven’t thought about it today, and I can feel with my finger that the scab has dried. It’s healing. I’m healing. I can still heal, I guess, even at this stage of life.

It’s strange how sleeping so well has affected my perception. I have no sense anymore of what a night is. I used to lay awake for so long in the dark that a night would take forever. Now I close my eyes and a moment later I open them to morning.

I also haven’t had any dreams since I’ve been here. Not that I can remember. Just deep, restful, dreamless sleeps.

I refocus on the canvas on my desk. It’s liberating to be working again. I feel younger. I have my head down, bent over the desk, when I get the uncomfortable sense of being watched. I stop, put down my brush, and look around my room.

I look behind me, toward my open door. A light in the hallway turns on, as if someone is there. I wait to see if they walk by. No one does. I wait. The cat walks in, rubbing up against my leg. I lean down and rub behind its ears.

He’s a cute, wee thing. I can feel his little ribs. He’s bordering on gaunt. But he likes when I rub his ears like this. When he scurries out, I look down at the painting, then back up to see Jack standing at my door.