Yale lay on the couch that night, listening as Terrence tossed in his sheets, as he whimpered through his night sweats. Yale closed his eyes and watched himself, the night of the memorial, from high up in Richard’s house near the skylight. He watched himself talk to Fiona, talk to Julian, sip his Cuba libre. Again and again he watched himself take in the beginning of the slide show, then turn and put his foot on the first step. He watched himself climb the stairs.
Being sick and alone
