I turn on my side so the water goes in my ear. I put my lips just on the surface of the puddle, without touching the floor. “Don’t go,” I say. I kiss Jude everywhere. I swallow him. I drink the water from the floor. I have to lap it the way a cat or a dog would. It is dirty with dust and sand and filth, but I drink it anyway, and when I can’t get anymore with my tongue, I sop Jude up in the bedsheet and wring the last drops of him into my mouth. “Jude,” I say once I finish drinking all that is left of him.
