“Yes, but I have to do this on my own,” I say.

“So do I,” he says.

I hold the hug and feel his hand patting my back.

“Goldbach’s conjecture, I finally remember it,” he says, as I’m standing to go. “And I want to make sure I tell you. It’s important: For every even number n>2, there exist two prime numbers p_1 and p_2 such that we can write: p_1 + p_2 = n… Numbers and letters, you see? We need both, Penny.”

I go to him, kiss him softly on the forehead. I feel the thinness of his skin with my lips. I let my forehead rest against his. “You don’t have to remember that anymore,” I say. “You’ve done all the work you need to do.”

“I’ve always liked the shape of your cheek,” he says.

As gently as I can, I rub my cheek against his. I feel his stubble, holding it for a moment. Then I pull away, turn away from him, and leave.

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here, walking these deceptive halls, in this constricting house, the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds. I’m lying in bed, but I can’t fall asleep. My mind is racing. Someone is in the room with me. I feel like someone else.

I want Hilbert to rest.

There are only four residents here. It’s full, but only four of us. There must be more rooms in a house this size. There are only two people who work here. I see all the same people every day. I go from my room to eat, to sit, to eat, back to my room, to sleep, to wake, to eat. Over and over. We all do. We all do the same things. We’re told the same things. We eat the same things.

“Is someone there?” I call to the dark room.

I get up, flip on the light. I wait, listening. I walk to my desk, back to bed, lie down. I get up again, walk around the room. I go into the bathroom. I drink some water out of my cupped hands.

I can’t fall asleep, so I put on my noise-canceling headphones. Once I turn them on, there’s no sound at all. I feel the pressure on my bladder after the water. I get back up, put my cardigan on, headphones still on, and sit on the toilet.

I stand, flush the toilet, which I can’t hear, and go back to bed. I keep my sweater on against the chill.

The room is dark. It’s not until I’m almost asleep that I realize what was different in the bathroom. The shower curtain was drawn across the shower. I always leave it open so I can see inside. But it was closed tonight. I don’t want to go back and check it yet again.

I need to rest, to sleep.

A tall, thin, silver pole beside my bed. It’s the first thing I see in the early-morning light. An IV pole, with a clear bag of fluid hanging from it. This isn’t a hospital. It’s a house. It’s a residence. It’s supposed to be a home. My home. I have the sensation of insects crawling all over me as I follow the IV line from the bag, which leads to me. I push my sleeve up to see where it enters the back of my arm. The fluid is going into me.