It happens. It happens when people find themselves caught in some extreme situation, a crisis, an emergency, especially one involving death, or the threat of death, when even total strangers can become intensely close, in some cases developing a lasting bond. Survivors of disasters, or near disasters, thrown together even for just a short time, arrange for annual reunions that go on for years after the experience they shared had occurred. There is the story of two people who met for the first time when the elevator they were in got stuck between floors. By the time they were freed many hours later they had agreed to marry. And they lived happily ever after. Well, no. They broke their engagement about a year later, but I believe they remained friends.

I didn’t think about you at all, my friend said. I didn’t count on having feelings for you, worrying about you.

And the feelings I was having for her—I hadn’t counted on those, either.

—

One of the many oddities of our situation had to do with grocery shopping. My friend’s interest in food was so diminished that she didn’t like to go shopping at all. The smells inside the supermarket could even sometimes nauseate her. Nor could she stand how freezing cold the store was kept, and the vast size of it—like a fucking airport, she said—exhausted her the minute she entered. (As for me, I am never in one of those megastores without wishing I were on blades.) So I usually went alone. But it was impossible to calculate how much food we’d need without touching on the awful question For how long. And so up and down the aisles I went, dazed and shuffling like a hundred-year-old woman.

Also, there was shame. Almost nothing can curb my appetite, and, during this time, for whatever reason (or perhaps for a very obvious reason), I was always hungry. Every meal with my friend ended the same: her plate barely touched, mine clean. I snacked between meals as well. Without getting on a scale I knew that I was gaining weight, and I was ashamed of this. Though I resisted gorging on things like doughnuts and ice cream, I was ashamed of how much I craved them. My greedy appetite seemed to me like an insult to my dying friend. Small wonder that, though the meals I ate were nutritious, they were usually followed by indigestion.

It was while I was at the supermarket one afternoon that my friend, who even on scorching days often suffered from chills, decided to take a hot bath. This particular day she was also suffering more than usual from fatigue. She lay down to wait until the bathtub was filled.

I sloshed across the room to the bed where she sat hugging her knees to her chest, dazed and shivering, like a person adrift on a raft after a shipwreck.