I say to Kate. “How am I supposed to think with you making that racket? It’s not like these are pleasant memories for me.” I am not humming. “Okay. Quit beeping. What are you, the Road Runner?” The sound is soft at first, like a mosquito buzzing near my ear, but it amplifies steadily, becomes ridiculously loud. “Stop making that noise.” I am starting to get a headache. A real headache. Pain sparks to life behind my eyes, seeps out, turns into a hammer-pounding migraine. I am as quiet as the grave over here. “Very funny. Wait. That’s not you. It sounds like a car alarm. What the fu—” WELOSTHER, someone says, yells, really. Who? Beside me, I hear Katie sigh. It is a sad sound, somehow, like the tearing of old lace. She whispers my name and then says: Time.
