Instead, I swallowed it.
That was what I had done for years.
I swallowed things until they became part of my body.
Emily gagged again, but nothing came up.
Only a thin sound, dry and frightened.
Michael turned away.
“I’m going back to bed,” he said. “Don’t start a circus.”
The bedroom door closed a minute later.
The house settled around us.
The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen.
Somewhere outside, a car rolled slowly past our mailbox and disappeared down the street.
Emily looked at the hallway like she expected him to come back.
“I’m okay,” she whispered.
She was not.
Before dawn, she fainted.
I found her beside the shower with the water still dripping behind the curtain.
Her skin was pale and slick.
Her lips were dry.
Her cracked phone was pressed to her chest, clutched so hard I had to pry one finger loose to check her pulse.
