She wanted to scold him, but his face was pale, and the dark circles beneath his eyes made him look younger than seventeen. He hated that. He hated being sick, hated being watched, hated the way Clara’s whole life orbited his fragile body like a moon trapped by gravity.
She sat beside him and brushed his hair from his forehead.
“I got your prescription.”
His eyes flicked up. “You paid?”
“Mostly.”
“Clara.”
“Don’t start.”
“The electricity?”
“The lights are still on, aren’t they?”
As if summoned by her words, the bulb above them flickered once.
Owen stared at it.
Clara stared at him.
Then they both burst out laughing, because there was nothing else to do.
By noon, Clara was back at the Starlight Diner.
Her arm ached where the needle had gone in, and a faint bruise bloomed under the skin, purple and green like a storm cloud. She kept tugging her sleeve down over it. She did not know why. It was only a bruise. Only proof that she had given something away and survived.
