I should have stayed longer, tried to help him. He was so upset. But I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t make a sound.

I take off my cardigan. I put it back on. I can’t get settled.

Where does Shelley go at night?

I put my hand in the pocket of my cardigan. I feel something—a piece of a paper.

I take it out and look at it. It’s one of the handwritten notes from my apartment.

Horizontal transfers of genes.

Pursuit of life at all costs.

The worst fever I had was when I was twelve. I was in bed for a week. The doctor told my parents that I was seriously ill, that it was touch and go. My temperature was 102. I couldn’t keep anything down.

This fever is worse.

I feel like I’ve been hit by a train, dragged for a few miles, and dropped in a ditch.

I can’t focus. I can’t stop shaking from cold, but the sweat pours off me. There are people around my bed, coming in and out of my room. Are they packing? Jack? Is that Jack?

Shelley?

Two people are talking at the foot of my bed. I can hear Pete’s violin.

Someone is walking me to the bathroom. They hold my forehead. I’m vomiting.

It’s night, then day, then night, then day again.

I’m so thirsty.

I yell for a drink, but now, just when I need it, no one’s here. I’m alone again. Help me. It’s dark. I’m shivering, but I need water. I make myself get out of bed, and on shaky legs, I walk slowly to the bathroom to get a drink.

It’s so dark that I have to feel for the bathroom light switch with my hand, running it up and down the wall. It shouldn’t take this long. Where is it? I find it and flip it up. The light comes on, and I scream.

But I don’t make a sound. I just feel myself scream. I can feel it inside my body.

What is he doing here? In front of me. Sitting in my chair. He has a canvas in his lap. He’s working on it intensely, painting. He hates being interrupted when he’s working. I can’t believe he’s here. He looks so old. I saw him the day he died, and he didn’t look this old. He looks up from his work. Right at me.

“What? What is it now? What the hell do you want? Can’t you see I’m working? Leave me alone! I need time. There’s more to do.”

I stumble back, dizzy, flipping the light off, as I fall back into bed, shaking, and crawl under the covers.

Part Three

“Good morning.”

I open my eyes to a blur of shapeless color. I try to focus.

Jack is standing at my bedside. My head feels heavy, and I’m not sure where I am. Then I remember: A fever, Jack, the kitchen. Seeing him in that frantic state. I couldn’t speak. He was crying. I saw his tears.