Page 115 of Life and Death

She didn’t look convinced.

“Do you ever miss food? Ice cream? Peanut butter?”

She shook her head. “I hardly remember food. I couldn’t even tell you what my favorites were. It doesn’t smell . . . edible now.”

“That’s kind of sad.”

“It’s not such a huge sacrifice.” She said it sadly, like there were other things on her mind, sacrifices thatwerehuge.

I used the dish towel as a hot pad and carried the plate to the table so I could sit by her.

“Do you miss other parts about being human?”

She thought about that for a second. “I don’t actuallymissanything, because I’d have to remember it to be able to miss it, and like I said, my human life is hard to remember. But there are things I think I’d like. I suppose you could say things I was jealous of.”

“Like what?”

“Sleep is one. Never-ending consciousness gets tedious. I think I’d enjoy temporary oblivion. It looks interesting.”

I ate a few bites, thinking about that. “Sounds hard. What do you do all night?”

She hesitated, then pursed her lips. “Do you mean in general?”

I wondered why she sounded like she didn’t want to answer. Was it too broad a question?

“No, you don’t have to be general. Like, what are you going to do tonight after you leave?”

It was the wrong question. I could feel my high start to slip. She was going to have to leave. It didn’t matter how short the separation was—I dreaded it.

She didn’t seem to like the question, either, at first I thought for the same reason. But then her eyes flashed to my face and away, like she was uncomfortable.

“What?”

She made a face. “Do you want a pleasant lie or a possibly disturbing truth?”

“The truth,” I said quickly, though I wasn’t entirely sure.

She sighed. “I’ll come back here after you and your father are asleep. It’s sort of my routine lately.”

I blinked. Then I blinked again.

“You comehere?”

“Almost every night.”

“Why?”

“You’re interesting when you sleep,” she said casually. “You talk.”

My mouth popped open. Heat flashed up my neck and into my face. I knew I talked in my sleep, of course; my mother teased me about it. I hadn’t thought it was something I needed to worry about here.

She watched my reaction, staring up at me apprehensively from under her lashes.

“Are you very angry with me?”

Was I? I didn’t know. The potential for humiliation was strong. And I didn’t understand—she’d been listening to me babble in my sleep from where? The window? I couldn’t understand.

“How do you . . . Where do you . . . What did I . . . ?” I couldn’t finish any of my thoughts.