“Derek.” I whispered.
He looked up. Dark circles under his eyes. “Yeah? You want water?”
“You believe me, right?” I asked him. “You believe she poured that chili water down my throat, right?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at the ceiling. “I believe what you saw… I’m just afraid you remembered it wrong.”
I froze. “Remembered it wrong?”
“You had a fever. A hundred and four.” He said, “When you’re burning up like that—I’m just saying, some things might not be exactly how you think they were.”
“My throat,” I said. “Did my throat remember it wrong too?”
He didn’t answer. His phone lit up on the nightstand. One word on the screen: Mom.
He glanced at it. Picked it up. Walked into the bathroom.
The door clicked shut.
Right at dawn, a key turned in the lock downstairs.
June came in wearing a light pink house dress, holding a stainless steel bowl of porridge. She saw me sitting on the bed and smiled. “I came up to check on my granddaughter. Brought you porridge too. It’s cool. Won’t burn your stomach.”
