“Why is there an extra bed?” I asked. “That’s your roommate’s side. Her name is Anna.” Inside my head, I said, Oh, hell, no, but even with a head injury, I knew that wasn’t the right way to respond. “Is there a way for me to have my own room?” I asked instead. I don’t have any siblings. I don’t share well. “Please,” I added, using my adult suck-up voice. The nurse was already unpacking my things and putting them in a small closet next to the bed by the door. The room looked like it belonged in a hospital. Worn brown linoleum that was faded from years of being washed with harsh cleaners, hospital bed complete with rail and plastic mattress coating, and industrial-grade chairs parked at the side for a visitor. The other bed was surrounded by a hoarder’s amount of crap—empty water bottles, magazines, a couple of paperbacks, a sweatshirt, and a tangled set of earphones. For all I knew, there was a flattened mummified cat buried at the bottom. I didn’t know how I would cope with someone in the room.
