I Held One White Pill Every Six Hours While He Told Me To Get Out...

I watched her breathe.

That was the only sound in the room after I told her to get out. The AC clicked low behind the headboard and the glass of water on the nightstand hadn't moved. The pill was still there too, small and white against the dark wood, right where she'd set it down before she sat on the edge of my bed just to rest for a second and didn't get back up.

She was on her side facing away from me, her head on her folded hands. Her cap had slipped. The ruffle caught half against the pillowcase and half against her ponytail, and a few strands of dark hair had come loose. Her light blue uniform was wrinkled at the shoulder where she'd pressed it into the mattress. Every breath lifted her shoulders a little and let them fall again. Slow. Even.

I should have woken her. I had my hand on the armrest, my fingers already tight around the rubber. One push and I could roll forward and say her name. I didn't know her name. The agency sheet was on the dresser and I hadn't read it.

I told myself I didn't want to hear her apology. The truth was quieter. If I woke her, she'd stand up, fix her cap, and look at the floor the way she had when she offered me the pill. And then I'd have to decide again about the glass and the white circle on the wood. It was easier to let her sleep for one more minute.

My phone lit up on the nightstand. No sound, just light. 5:42 a.m. Then a second flash.

Mrs. Albright: Morning check at 6. Front door.

Mrs. Albright managed the house. She came at six every morning whether I answered or not. She had a key to the bedroom hallway and a checklist on a clipboard and a way of noting things without saying them. Uniform not pressed. Client agitated. Aide sleeping on client bed would be more than a note. That would be a call to the agency before breakfast.

I looked at the woman on my bed again. The cap. The uniform. The way her shoes were still on, tucked neat together off the side of the mattress like she'd tried not to take up space even asleep. If Mrs. Albright opened that door and saw her there, she wouldn't ask what happened. She'd see a girl who couldn't stay awake on her first overnight.

Footsteps started in the hall. Not close yet. The front entry. Mrs. Albright was early. I heard the soft thump of the outer door and then the beep of the alarm panel, the same two tones every morning. She always took her coat off in the laundry room first. That gave me maybe two minutes.

I didn't think about the next part. I just moved.

I rolled my chair forward until the footrests almost touched the bed frame. The wheel caught briefly on the rug and I had to jerk it free. The noise was louder than I wanted it to be. She didn't stir. Her breathing hitched for a second and then settled.

The edge of the white blanket was folded back where she'd sat. I reached for it. My arms shook the way they had earlier when I tried to lean forward. Pain shot low across my back and I had to stop and breathe through it, my hands gripping the bedding the same way I had when she watched me earlier. I waited for it to pass.

Then I took the corner of the blanket and pulled.

I couldn't cover her completely without waking her, and I didn't need to. I just needed it to look like the bed was unmade and she wasn't in it. I lifted the blanket up over her hips and pulled it toward her shoulders, letting the white bunch and fold so it draped her shape into a shadow. Her blue sleeve disappeared under it. Her cap was still a problem. White on white. I tugged the blanket one inch higher, just enough to shadow it. From the doorway, it would look like a pillow with laundry on it if you didn't look straight at it.

I backed my chair up a foot and turned it to face the door. I knocked the glass of water with my elbow as I moved. It didn't spill, but it slid an inch and the pill rolled slightly on the wood. I steadied the glass with my palm. My hand was sweating. I wiped it on my pajama pants, the black fabric with white piping suddenly too warm.

The hallway floor creaked. Mrs. Albright's shoes on the hardwood. One, two, three steps toward the bedroom.

I put my hands on the armrests and lifted my chest the way I had before my injury, like I was sitting up straighter than I felt. I kept my eyes on the door handle and waited for it to turn, my body between the hallway and the bed, between the checklist and the girl who was still breathing softly under my blanket.