It’s been three days since the Pierre, and I’ve spent every one of them in the same panic loop. On each of those nights, I’ve found myself curling under the duvet next to Raymond’s snoring carcass, burning up with the knowledge that he is supposed to be dead, and it’s my fault he isn’t.
In all of those many lonely hours, there’s been not a peep on the burner cell.
I checked again around two in the morning, when Raymond’s hand landed on my hip in his sleep and I thought I might combust on the spot. I eased out from under him, made for the closet, and powered the burner up. The little M.S. sat at the top of the inbox where I’d left it. No new bubbles underneath. I powered it down and tucked it back behind the hatbox, then stood there in the dark in my bare feet and tried to keep myself fro
