I go on.
When I wake up, Cathreen comes and lies down next to me. I slept in the other room again. She says she's sorry she was cranky. This is as sweet a gesture as I could have expected.
Now she has a fever and she places my hand on her forehead.
Her palm hurts. But she can move her fingers, if only a few centimeters.
She calls me into the other room. Boise, our cat, is eating the dogs' food. This, we figure, must be why they hate him.
He is supposed to be dieting to fit on the plane to America.
We bought him on an impulse, on a rainy day, and treat him like our child.
For the next two months, I decide I will write for hours a day. Cathreen has made me promise I will use this time wisely.
the project has moved
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