Anthony is curled around me, big body aligned with mine and nose tickling the back of my ear. He’s dead asleep, breathing the slow, heavy breaths of the exhausted. His arm is a substantial dead weight over me, and he’s crooked his fingers into the neck of the hoodie, knuckles grazing my throat when I move. In the way that often happens when you’re sick, I have the sudden and unexplainable urge to cry.
