“IS SHE DEAD?” I hear Adam say right before he pokes me.
“Hey!” I flip the blanket off me so I can glare at him.
“Are you eighty?” He stands at the side of the couch, hand on his hip, waiting for an answer.
“What?” I readjust myself, trying to avoid the sunken spot that I am almost sure was there before I got here.
Adam dramatically looks at his watch. “It’s eight o’clock,” he says, as if this should mean something to me.
I ignore him and close my eyes but he keeps talking. “Only eighty-year-olds go to bed at eight o’clock.”
“Who says I’m just now going to bed?” I mutter from under the blanket.
“Good God, okay, this is enough. You need to get out.” Adam rips the blanket off me. I flail my legs and arms in an attempt to pull it back over me, but Adam already tosses it over the back o
