Chapter 5: Three A.M.

At three in the morning my stomach turned over, and I made it to the bathroom with one hand over my mouth.

The loft's bathroom was a tin shower stall and a toilet behind a curtain.

I dropped to my knees on the cold tile and was sick until my eyes watered.

I had unlocked the spare room door on the way out.

I hadn't thought about it. I had only thought about the floor.

"Lana?"

Mitchell stood in the doorway in a gray T-shirt and nothing else but a pair of pajama bottoms, his hair standing up on one side.

"Go away," I said, and retched again.

He didn't go.

He crouched behind me, gathered my hair in one hand and held it back from my face, and said nothing at all.

When the worst passed, I sat back on my heels and breathed.

His other hand was flat between my shoulder blades.

It was warm and very still, and it covered most of the width of my back.

I knew I should say my rule out loud.

I didn't.

"Better?" he asked.

"A little."

"Rinse your mouth. I'll get crackers."

He ran the tap and held a paper cup under it and waited while I drank.

His hand never left my back.

I noticed that it never left, and I noticed that I was leaning into it, and I told myself I was too tired to sit up straight.

Then he took his hand away so fast that the loss felt like a draft.

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