But the thing was, although I might not have been dying, I wasn’t really living, either. I was doing what I’d always done: keeping my head down, working hard, planning for the future, and trying to ignore the present. Like Harbor, Latham was someplace to get through on the way to somewhere else. I had an appointment with Dr. Barons on Sunday, and when he pulled up my vitals on his tablet, I could tell I was in trouble. He stared down at the screen, his expression dismayed. “Lane, buddy, what’s going on here?” he asked. “Nothing.” I tried to look innocent, like I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I had a pretty good idea. I still wasn’t feeling that great, although it was nowhere near as bad as it had been on Saturday morning. I’d been so focused on keeping up with my schoolwork that I’d ignored my test scores—the ones I couldn’t study for. I’d overdone it, and now Dr. Barons was going to . . . what? Give me a strike for being sick? “How are you feeling right now?
