Something is going to kill you, someday, and you can’t know if this is the day.
After a while, my head got heavy, and I sat down on the couch in front of the TV.
I didn’t really have the energy to turn it on, so I just stared at the blank screen.
The oblong pill made me feel exceptionally groggy, but only from the bridge of my nose up.
My body felt like its standard self, broken and insufficient in the usual ways,
but my brain felt sloppy and exhausted, like the noodle legs of a runner post-marathon.
Mom came home and plopped down next to me. “Long day,” she said.
“I don’t mind students, Aza. It’s the parents that make my job hard.”
“Sorry,” I said. “How was your day?” “Okay,” I said. “I don’t have a fever, do I?”
She pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. “I don’t think so. Do you feel sick?”
“Just tired, I think.” Mom turned on the TV, and I told her I was going to lie down and do some homework.
I read my history textbook for a while, but my consciousness felt like a camera with a dirty lens, so I decided to text Davis.
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