He’s rubbing her shoulders, her arms, her temples. She stops shaking.

Tries to speak. It comes out like a hiss.

3:01 p.m.

“Cabel,” she finally says.

“You ready to try to move?” His voice is concerned.

She shakes her head slowly. Turns toward him. Reaches out. “I can’t see yet,” she says quietly. “How long has it been?” Cabel moves his hands over her shoulders and back down to her fingers. “Not that long,” he says softly. “A few minutes.” More like twelve.

“That was a bad one.”

“Yeah. Did you try to pull out of it?”

Janie rests her forehead on the heel of her hand and rolls her head slowly, side to side. Her voice is weak. “I didn’t try to get out. I tried to help her change it. Couldn’t get her to pay any attention to me.” Cabel paces.

They wait.

Slowly Janie can make out shapes. The world fades back in. “Phew,” she says. Smiles shakily.

“I’m driving you home,” Cabel says as the janitor comes into the library, eyeing them suspiciously. Cabel shoves Janie’s books into her backpack, a grim look on his face. He searches around in the pack and comes up empty-handed. “Don’t you carry anything with you? I’m out of PowerBars.”

“Um…” Janie bites her lip. “I’m okay now. I’ll be fine. I can drive.” He scowls. Doesn’t respond. Helps her stand up, slings her backpack over his shoulder, and they walk out to the parking lot. It’s lightly snowing.

He opens the passenger-side door of his car and looks at her, his jaw set.

Patient.

Waiting.

Until she gets in.

He drives in silence through the snow to a nearby mini-mart, goes in, and returns with pint of milk and a plastic bag. “Open your backpack,” he says.

She does it.

He pours half a dozen PowerBars into it. Opens a bar and hands it to her with the milk. “I’ll get your car later,” he says, holding his hand out for her keys. She looks down. Then hands them over.

He drives her to her house.

Stares at the steering wheel, his jaw set.

Waits for her to get out.

She glances at him, a puzzled expression on her face. “Oh,” she says finally. She swallows the lump in her throat. Takes her backpack and the milk and gets out of the car. Closes the door. Goes up the steps and kicks the snow off her shoes. Not looking back.

He pulls out of the driveway slowly, making sure Janie gets inside okay. And drives away.

Janie goes to bed, confused and sad, and takes a nap.

8:36 p.m.

She’s awake. Starving. Looks around the house for something healthy and finds a tomato, growing soft in the refrigerator. There’s a tuft of mold on the stem. She sighs. There’s nothing else. She shrugs on her coat and slips on her boots, grabs fifty dollars from the grocery envelope, and starts walking.

The snow is beautiful. Flakes so tiny they sparkle, sequins in the oncoming headlights and under street lamps. It’s cold, maybe twenty degrees out. Janie slips on her mittens and secures her coat at her throat. Glad she wore boots.

When she reaches the grocery store a mile away, it’s quiet inside. A few shoppers stroll to the Muzak piping from the speakers. The store is bright with yellowy light, and Janie squints as she enters. She grabs a cart and heads to the produce section, shaking the snowflakes from her hair as she walks. She loosens her coat and tucks her mittens in her pockets.

Shopping, once Janie actually gets there, is relaxing to her. She takes her time, reading labels, thinking about things that seem like they might taste good together, picking out the best vegetables, mentally calculating the total cost as she goes along. It’s like therapy. By the time she’s spent her approximate allotment, she slips through the baking aisle to get to the checkout. As she meanders, looking at the different kinds of oils and spices, she slows her cart.

Glances to the left.

Recalculates what’s in her cart.

And hesitantly picks out a red box and a small round container. Puts them in the cart next to the eggs and milk.

She wheels to the front of the store and stands in a short line at the one lonely check-out counter. Janie glances at the periodicals while she waits. Rides through a wave of hunger nausea. Loads her things onto the belt and watches the scanner anxiously as the number creeps upward.

“Your total comes to fifty-two twelve.”

Janie closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I have exactly fifty dollars. I need to put something back.” The checker sighs. The line behind Janie grows. She flushes and doesn’t look at any of them. Decides what’s necessary.

Hesitantly picks out the cake mix and the frosting.

Hands them to the checker. “Take these off, please,” she says quietly.

It figures, she thinks.

The checker makes like this is huge deal. Stomps on the buttons with her fingers.

People thaw, drip, and shift on their feet behind Janie.

She ignores them.

Sweating profusely.

“48.01,” the checker finally announces. She counts out the $1.99 in change like it’s breaking her back to lift so many coins at once.

Janie strings the pregnant bags over her arms, three on each side, and flees. Sucks in the cold fresh air. Pumps her arms once she reaches the road to get in her workout for the day, trying not to crush the eggs and bread. Her arms ache pleasantly at first. Then they just plain ache.

After a quarter mile a car slows and comes to a stop in front of Janie. A man gets out. “Ms. Hannagan, isn’t it?” he says. It’s Happy. Also known as Mr. Durbin, her Chem. 2 teacher. “You need a ride? I was a few customers behind you in line.”