Liquid Smoke

FIFTY-FOUR

My eyes opened, and the daylight forced me to squeeze them shut again.

I opened them more carefully this time. Muted sunlight filtered into the room. The sheets on my bed were twisted around me like ribbons, and I struggled to pull myself out of them. I pushed up and sat on the edge of the mattress. My head ached, and it felt like an entire cotton field had grown inside my mouth. I stood and walked out to the living room.

Carter was on the sofa, watching the television with the sound turned down.

He turned around. “Hey.” He reached over, grabbed the remote, and shut off the TV.

I opened the fridge, found a bottle of water, and downed it in about four swallows.

“You alright?” he asked.

I threw the empty bottle in the sink. “Time is it?” My throat was tight and raw.

“About four o’clock.”

I looked out the window. The weak sunlight I’d seen in my room was about to disappear again behind clouds the color of steel. “You spend the night here?” I asked. He hesitated. “Both nights.” I looked at him. “Both?”

“You haven’t come out of your room for almost two days, man.” I nodded like I knew that. I grabbed another bottle of water out of the fridge and drank half of it. “Where’s Miranda?” “My place.”

The clouds swallowed the sun, and the rain started to fall. “Still raining?” I said.

“It’s barely stopped,” he said. “Wellton wants you—” “Don’t.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Not yet,” I said, watching the waves tumble outside.

Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. I watched the water, and he watched me.

“There’s one thing, Noah,” he finally said. “I think you should know.”

I emptied the bottle, tossed it into the sink with the other, and took a deep breath. “What?”

“Tomorrow. Ten AM,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “Her funeral.”

I grabbed another bottle of water from the fridge and went back to my room.