The morning started with a betrayal from my own body. I woke up to sharp, biting pangs of pain that seemed to wrap around my bones. The slight fever I'd been fighting for days had finally won; now, every muscle throbbed as if I were covered in deep bruises.
I tried to eat just one bite of a dry cracker, but my stomach immediately revolted. I barely made it to the shared bathroom to throw up. It was as if my body were telling me to mourn—telling me that it couldn't find the strength to process food when my heart was still in pieces.
But I couldn't stay down. One week. That's how long it took for me to finally pull the thin, dusty blanket off my body and stand up. My head felt like it was filled with gray smoke, and my limbs were heavy, but my throat was so dry it hurt to swallow. I had to move. I couldn't stay in this room forever, waiting for a phone call that was never going to come.
