At some point, I drift forward, my head resting on the mattress.
“Caleb?”
I’m upright instantly. “Hey. How do you feel?”
She grimaces, one hand pressing her temple. “Like I got hit by a truck. I need… bathroom.”
Only then do I see her realize she’s in nothing but wet jeans under the blanket. Color floods her cheeks. “Um. Clothes?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” I stand too fast, almost tripping.
I grab a soft nightshirt and shorts, then turn back to find her watching me with an unreadable expression.
“I can help you,” I say carefully. “Only if you want me to. Or I can get Mom?—”
“No!” Panic spikes in her voice. “Don’t wake them up. Please.”
“Okay.” I keep my tone even. “Then I’ll just help you get your arms through. I won’t look. Swear.”
Rule #904: Ask permission before touching. Always.
Rule #905: Eyes on the wall. No exceptions.
Rule #906: Minimal contact. Only what’s necessary
I create new rules in real-time because I need them. Need structure for this.
She lets me guide her arms into the shirt, the blanket still wrapped around her chest.
Left arm: Guide through sleeve. Don’t look. Eyes on wall. Right arm: Guide through sleeve. Don’t look. Eyes on wall. Pull shirt down: Only touch fabric, not skin. Step back: Four steps. Even number. Safe distance.
My eyes stay fixed on the wall, but I’m aware of every shallow breath she takes and every tremor in her muscles.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
I walk her to the bathroom, steadying her with a hand at her back. “I’ll be right outside.”
Eight steps from bed to bathroom. I count them.
When the door closes, I count seconds.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four.
At 47 seconds, I check: “You okay in there?”
“Yeah,” comes her weak voice.
Resume counting.
She’s in there for four minutes and 23 seconds total.
263 seconds.
Is that normal? Is that too long? Is she?—
The door opens.
She’s fine. Of course, she’s fine.