Chapter 3
Light had changed.
It came in thin and gray around the edges of the blinds, the warm low bulb from last night still burning on the nightstand but washed out now. The glass of water beside it hadn't moved. The pill was still there on its little square of paper, white against the wood.
She was still there too.
She woke all at once. I saw it happen. Her eyes opened, unfocused for half a second, then she felt the bedding under her cheek and the pillow that wasn't hers and my bed that wasn't hers. She sat up too fast and her cap had shifted. Her ponytail was pressed flat on one side.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, I'm sorry."
She swung her legs off the bed and stood, smoothing her uniform with both hands, tugging the hem straight. She wouldn't look at me.
"I didn't mean to — I was supposed to check — I just closed my eyes for a minute," she said. Her voice was hoarse. "I'm sorry."
I hadn't moved my chair. I'd stayed where I'd put it last night, angled to block the door just enough. My hands were on the armrests. My back ached from not moving.
She saw the pill then. She picked up the paper like she was relieved to have something to hold.
"It's still time," she said quietly. "If you want it."
I didn't answer right away. I reached instead for the bottle on the nightstand. My fingers were stiff. I turned it so the label caught the morning light.
The pharmacy print was small. Take one tablet by mouth every six hours. Take on empty stomach. Do not take with food. There was a time stamp from the pharmacist and my name and the doctor's name. Under it, in smaller letters, the same thing she'd said.
One every six hours. Empty stomach.
I read it twice to make sure I'd seen it right.
"You said that last night," I said.
She nodded, still holding the pill out a little, not pushing it.
I set the bottle down. The glass sweated a ring onto the wood. I hadn't eaten since the evening before. Not since the tray at six that I'd left half covered because the chicken was cold and I didn't want to ask her to heat it again.
"I haven't eaten since yesterday," I said. The words felt heavier saying them out loud. "Around six. I left the tray."
She looked at me then, really looked, and I saw her do the math the same way I had.
"That was about eleven hours ago," she said.
"Get out. It says one every six hours you haven't eaten." I repeated it back exactly how she'd said it last night, not to throw it at her but because I finally understood what she had meant. It wasn't nagging. It was what the bottle said. She'd been reading the label to me while I told her to leave.
She flushed. "I shouldn't have — I should have shown you the bottle then."
"You did what you were supposed to do," I said. My throat was dry. Pain sat low in my back, dull and insistent. I had been trying to wait it out, trying to prove I could wait.
She set the pill and paper back down carefully next to the glass. She didn't put it in my hand. That mattered.
"It's due," she said. "And your stomach is empty, so it should work right. But it's your call. I can get you water. Or food first if you want to wait for the next dose."
I stared at the pill. White, small enough to disappear between two fingers. Last night it had felt like something she was trying to make me take. This morning, with the label in my hand and the empty feeling in my gut, it looked like what it was. Medicine. On a clock I hadn't been watching.
"I don't like taking it on empty," I admitted. "It makes me feel off. But I don't like waiting either."
"I know," she said. She didn't move closer. She stayed by the side of the bed, hands clasped now. "It says food makes it not work as well. That's why the empty part matters."
We sat there for a moment with the morning light getting stronger. The bedroom felt less dim now, more ordinary. White linens, dark headboard, my chair, her uniform. The pill between us on the nightstand.
I reached for the glass. My hand shook a little and I steadied it. I didn't pick up the pill yet.
"Leave it there for a minute," I said. "Just — leave it there while I think."
May you like
She nodded. "I'll be right here."
And that was the shift. Not that I took it. Not yet. But that I wasn't telling her to get out anymore, and she wasn't apologizing for doing her job. The clock was still ticking — six hours, every six hours — but we were both finally looking at the same label.
