Page 68 of We Can Forever

At least I have this. I can focus on this. I don’t have to worry about Michael or Katie, who is with Jenny at home… I can just crochet… One…chain…at…a…

“Hey.” Someone touches my shoulder, making me jump.

“Hi,” I mumble to Flick, who is crouched in front of me.

“You were falling asleep.”

“Was I?” I rub my face. I can’t fall asleep. It’s barely dinnertime.

“Yeah.” Her eyebrows knit together in concern. “How are you doing?”

My brain is slow to formulate an answer. “Fine.”

It’s a lie. I’m exhausted, that’s how I’m doing. I can’t think straight, can barely keep my eyes open.

The truth is glaringly obvious—I’m having a fatigue flare.

They’re even harder to treat than pain flares. The only thing that helps is lying in a dark room and sleeping for as long as my body needs. But that’s impossible right now. I’m too wired.

Not that I need to tell Flick any of this. She’s reading it all on my face.

“I can push through,” I assure her. “Once I hear about Michael, I’ll go home. I promise. But I can’t rest until I know that he’s okay.” She sighs and stands. “I understand.”

The front door opens, but I don’t bother looking to see who it is. Instead, I drop my head against the wall and close my eyes. Just a few minutes of rest, then I’ll open them back up.

“…flare,” Flick says to someone, her voice sounding like it’s on the other side of the room.

“…do for it?” Someone—Cynthia?—asks.

A phone rings. Like every other sound, it’s distant, foreign. There’s a moment of talk and then an exclamation of joy.

“Everyone is safe!” Pat calls out.

My eyes pop open, and I sit up straight. “Michael’s safe?” I croak.

Flick hugs me. “He is. They all are.”

I touch my cheeks and find that they’re wet. How long have I been crying?

“I’m going to take you home.” Flick gently urges me up. “Then come back and lock up.”

“I’ll take her.” Cynthia steps forward, looping her arm through mine.

I want to protest—being taken home and put to bed never stops being embarrassing—but I don’t have the strength for that. Instead, I let Cynthia load me into her car.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, curled up in her passenger’s seat like a child.

Cynthia clucks. “Oh no, don’t say that. You don’t have to apologize to me.”

“I’m glad Michael is okay,” I murmur, doing my best to keep my eyes open.

She pats my shoulder. “Me too.”

Giving her directions to my cottage proves about as challenging as solving a Rubik’s Cube, and by the time we pull into my driveway, I’m more zombie than human. She walks me inside and helps me into bed.

“What can I do for you?” she asks.

“Nothing, thank you.” I snuggle deeper under the covers. “I just…” I yawn. “…need to sleep.”

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