Chapter 9: Mango TangoDear Bump,
Tonight I dreamed of my father. Our father.
He was young, younger than I am now, sitting in his chair in the living room. He was speaking to me in a calm and soothing voice, and I felt very safe, like nothing could go wrong as long as he was in that chair, in the diffused light, his quiet face framed by dark woody greens and amber shades, the whole room as mysterious and lush as a Delacroix painting. Maybe Jacob wrestling the Angel.
Then I woke up and realized I wasn’t in bed with Nick. I was in our guestroom—Myles’s temporary bedroom. I hurried out of bed and into the hall, but when I came upon our bedroom door, I saw Nick was sleeping deeply, barely moving, his breathing coming slow and steady.
I was thirsty because of the medication I’m forced to pop
