The effects of last night’s illness are totally gone. It feels good to feel good. I never said that at my apartment. I never thought that. And I was so sick last night. I feel so much better this morning. Better than ever. The sunlight is filling my room, and it accentuates how blank my walls are. I wish they were decorated. The walls of my apartment were so cluttered and full of photos, posters, paintings.

I also miss my photo albums. I must have had six or seven, all of them full. I used to take them out periodically, flip through them. I loved seeing the old faces.

What happened to all those albums? They aren’t here.

I have a hard time remembering the day or two leading up to the move. Mike did all the packing. Did he take everything off the walls? I do remember saying I wanted the photo albums. But why would he pack my paintings instead? What happened to all the stuff I don’t miss but used every day: cutlery, glassware, plates? My bed? My kitchen table? My chair? I spent so many hours in that chair.

I realize I’m still holding the small device that Jack left me. I pick up the headphones from the bedside and slip them on. I press play, and immediately my ears are filled with music. Duke Ellington.

I look out the window at the trees. I look at the blank walls. I look up at the ceiling, which is white, like the walls. It’s like I’m starting over. A clean slate for however long I have left.

I take off my slippers and start sliding around the room in my bare feet, moving in a way I’m surprised that I still can, in a way I haven’t moved in a long time.

I can’t believe it. I’m dancing.

It’s Shelley, not Jack, serving the breakfast today. That’s a first. I feel like I haven’t seen her in a while. She doesn’t ask me how I’m feeling or offer any sympathy for my night of sickness. There’s an intensity to her demeanor this morning, a curtness.

I’m ravenous. I start with a piece of toast. It’s already been buttered, but I add more, spreading it right around all the edges so the piece is glistening. We also have fruit and yogurt and hard-boiled eggs. I take two eggs from the platter.

We eat. We all feed attentively; such a basic human need.

I look up from my plate, toward Hilbert. I would guess he’s older than me. But I’m not interested in how many years old he his. There are other ways to gauge time and experience.

“How long have you been here?” I ask. “At Six Cedars?”

“I don’t know,” he says. His eyes look different this morning. Not quite as bright and sharp as they were yesterday.

He sprinkles some salt and pepper onto his egg.

“Were you unwell last night? I was very sick,” I say.