I slap at it several times before finally picking it up and hurling it at the wall. I roll over and moan, keenly aware that every muscle in my body is on fire, stretched tight, then stretched and abused again, until they have no choice but to grow stronger or snap. I wiggle my toes, which are the only part of me that’s cold. I crack open one eye and discover they’re poking out the bottom of my quilt. I snag it with my feet and pull it down to cover them, but this leaves the top half of my torso uncovered. Fuck it. The hard floor does precious little to clear the cobwebs from my head. I shuffle into the kitchen. Mom’s already there, reaching overhead for a cast iron skillet. “Omelet?” “Sure.” “You don’t have to do this, you know,” she says, as she cracks eggs into a bowl. “What?” “Be a hero. Every night I go to sleep and I don’t know whether to cry or sing praises.
