But at the same time, it’s sort of a compulsion. The kind that I know is going to hurt later—like when I chipped my tooth in seventh grade and couldn’t resist touching it with my tongue, even though I knew it was so sharp, it would cut me. That’s what it feels like listening to Hudson tell me to open my eyes. “Wow, so I’m a toothache now?” He sounds insulted. “Thaaaaanks.” “If you were a toothache, I’d go to the dentist and let her drill you out of my head,” I tell him, my voice filled with the frustration I can’t get away from. “Without novocaine.”
