I tried to curl my tongue. It moved. Barely. I tried my right pinky. Nothing. Again — the tip twitched.
The front door opened. Closed. Daniel came upstairs.
The seventh step creaked. He stopped in the doorway. Listening for breathing.
I dragged every breath out long and slow until my chest ached.
The mattress dipped. Two fingers pressed down on my wrist, right on the pulse. He counted.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
He pulled the blanket up to my chin. He stood close. I could smell detergent on his shirt, and old coffee underneath it. He swallowed.
Then he went downstairs and the TV came on. Sports. Waves of crowd noise.
I didn’t open my eyes until my left leg went numb.
The bedroom door was open a crack, the hall nightlight cutting through it. I rolled over first. Knees to the carpet, palms down. Bile came up. I clamped a hand over my mouth and swallowed it back.
