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breath.
    “I'm Jade.” He shook her hand as he took her own
sheet from her, pretending not to notice when it tore a
little as the edges stuck to her sweaty palms. Val did
notice, however, and thought, Oh God .
    “Let's see—hmm.” He scrawled his name under
the square for two languages and studied his own
paper. “Which state are you from?”
“California.” He must think I'm a total loser .
“Really?” He eyed her with mock skepticism.
“Not Alaska? Huh. Got any movie star neighbors?”
“Ha ha.”
    “Tough audience.” He handed her paper back.
She stared at the lone signature and wondered
whether he was talking her because he was being nice
or being sadistic. “Don't you want to know what
language I speak?”
Val flicked the paper sticking to her palm to the
floor. “Spanish?”
    “Nope.”
“French?”
“Latin.”
Latin? “Really?” she asked suspiciously.
“ Ave atque vale .” He flashed her a grin.
    That smile cut right to the core of her. It had been
such a long while since anyone had smiled at her like
that, with such sincerity and open kindness—
Unless he really was having her on.
I should have told him I speak hieroglyphics .
    Words were the bane of her existence. She
drowned in them when all she wanted was silence,
only to have them recede when one desperatelysought phrase would be the key to her salvation. Most
things were like that: excess in times of abundance,
and shortages in times of dearth. Life, she realized,
was an unbalanced scale, and would never weigh in
one's favor, struggle as one might.
Certainly not hers.
    The moment his back was turned, Val sneaked
out of the lounge. Relief was as instantaneous as the
cold creeping on her skin.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
    Mary was gone again when Val woke up. Her bed
was made and a fluffy pink unicorn was sitting on the
folded
coverlet,
nestled
comfortably
against
the
matching pillow. A stack of romance novels were
piled up at her bedside. All of them had vintage
covers, women in the arms of men who were all but
exploding out of their clothing.
Must be a gift from her sisters.
    Val groped for her stuffed cat and when she
couldn't find it, leaned over to search beneath her
bed. A wave of dizziness overtook her from leaning
over so suddenly and she thought, Serves me right if I
fall .
    Something soft tickled her fingers and her fingers
closed around the striped tail. She pulled the cat back
into bed with her and hugged it to her breast,
squeezing it, letting the polyester fur absorb her tears.
    Not that she was miserable. The light shearing
through the blinds was just making her eyes water. At
least, that was what she told herself as she pulled the
sheet back over her and the stuffed cat's heads.
    Her
therapist
had
said
she
was
depressed,
anxious. Who wasn't? Val never revealed her thoughts
aloud. Therapists—and psychiatrists, too—had a way
of using your words against you, turning a simple
statement into something clinically profound.
    It wasn't that she was sad—sadness had very little
to do with it, really, considering that most of the time
she felt close to nothing at all. Feeling required
nerves, connections, sensory input. The only thing she
felt was numb. And tired.
    Yes, she very frequently felt tired.
Mornings turned her limbs to lead. When she
went through the daily routine in her head—shower,
get dressed, eat breakfast, explore campus, buy lunch)
her body became a deadweight.
    It was all so exhausting.
Easier to lie in bed.
Easier to think nothing at all.
    And so Val slept, and dreamed, and woke only
when she heard the door slam and the heavy
footsteps tramping across the squeaky floors.
    There was a thud. Val leaned up, squinting as the
light flicked on, and Mary looked at her in mild
surprise. “Oh! I'm sorry. Were you sleeping?”
“Um, yeah, I was.” She raked a hand through her
hair. It felt slightly damp. “What time is it?”
    “Almost five o' clock.”
She had spent the entire day in bed.
    Mary tilted her head. “Hey,