Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
He launches into his story, and I glance out the window one more time at the empty spot in the street where Simone’s cart normally is.
Surely I didn’t chase her off, did I?
CHAPTER
FIVE
SIMONE
I’m dying.
This is how I go out—the space flu from hell. I wake up from another fitful nap and stare at the ceiling of my dorm room. I’m soaked in sweat, my lightweight nightgown plastered to my skin, my hair stuck to my face. I should get up and open a window, but I lack the energy.
A tickle builds in my nose, and I sneeze three times straight before collapsing back on the bed. I might have pissed on myself a little, too. Ugh. RIP to my pelvic floor. I run a hand over my brow, peeling sweaty hair from my skin. My throat feels like a desert, but I’m so tired I contemplate whether or not getting up to go to the kitchen a few feet away is worth the effort, or if I should just roll over and go back to sleep.
Sleep, I decide. I skip the rolling over part, though. Too much energy expenditure. My hand flops over the edge of the bed, only for a warm, concerned face to push against it. Pluto. “Hi bubba,” I manage. “I’ll get up and feed you. Gimme just a second.”
It isn’t until Pluto starts pushing against my hand again that I realize I’m drifting off to sleep again and I can’t. He needs food and water. It’s not like he can work my fridge on his own. With every ounce of strength I have left, I haul myself from bed and stagger to the kitchen. I’m dizzy as I lean against the counter, but I manage to put out a big bowl of fresh water for him (and choke down a glass for myself). Chopping up the raw meat he likes takes a bit longer, and by the time I’ve fed him and set the bowl on the tile floor, I’m out of energy. The tile is nice and cool, too. I lie down where I am and stretch out against the flooring.
Someone knocks at the door.
I groan, lifting my face from the hard tile. Why me? What now?
“Go away,” I croak.
The knock at the door sounds again. And again.
With a whimper of self-pity, I haul myself upright. Even doing that much feels like extreme effort, and I pause to catch my breath before staggering toward the door. I glance down to make sure I’m clothed—sleeveless top and pajama pants, yup—and then pry the door open a crack, squinting at the light coming in from the hallway. It hurts my eyes, and I close them before my head explodes. “What?”
“It’s me.”
Oh no. I recognize that voice. I pry one eye open and stare in annoyance at the perfectly groomed woman in my doorway. Of all people to drag me out of bed, it has to be her? “Oh god. What do you want?”
Her expression grows dodgy, her shoulders straightening. “You didn’t have your cart out today.”
“Must be your lucky day.” I start to close the door again.
She puts her foot in the jamb, blocking the way. “What’s wrong with you?”
Pluto growls, the sound low and dangerous and far too menacing for something his size.
Ruth-Ann immediately steps back.
“What’s wrong with you?” I say, determined to get the last word. I ruin it by coughing, the crap that’s been building in my lungs deciding to take flight at that particular moment. I keep coughing for far too long, until I’m exhausted all over again.
Ruth-Ann retreats further, moving out of the way of my coughing. She crosses her arms over her chest, eyeing my pet and then my disheveled form. “Are you sick?”
What a dumb question. Classic Ruth-Ann, missing the obvious. “No, I just decided to take a day off for fun. Fuck money, and fuck making a living, right?” I sneeze to punctuate my words. “Now go away.”
With that, I shut the door in her face and stagger back to bed. Almost immediately, sleep takes over again. If she knocks, I’m too tired to hear it.
CHAPTER
SIX
RUTH-ANN
Guilt is an annoying thing.
I shouldn’t feel guilty that my nemesis is sick and no one is taking care of her. I have nothing to do with it. I didn’t give her whatever plague she’s down with. We barely pass each other every day. She probably caught it from someone else in town. It’s not my fault that she looks absolutely wrecked, her eyes hollow and skin pale as death. She’s made it clear that she’s not interested in my sympathy. I should just say good riddance and go on with my life.
Except…I can’t.
I’ve been mean to her for this last while because she irks me with her smiling face and her cart full of shitty baked goods that everyone seems to love. No one realizes that they’re terrible and she should be doing better, and I feel it’s my duty to point this out. I know it makes her angry. It makes me feel like a bad person for upsetting her, but then I get equally upset that no one else seems to have a problem with sub-par baking or soggy crusts.