She doesn’t get up the next day or the next day or the next, until the days and nights begin to pass in one unbroken blur. She doesn’t change her clothes, doesn’t shower, doesn’t read, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t even really eat—she draws down slowly on a sleeve of saltines that she keeps on the pillow next to her, like a lover. She just stares up at the ceiling, while her sheets go stale and life goes on outside.
