Page 104 of Runaways

Like I have something to look forward to for the first time in a long time.

I get up, pour myself a cup of coffee, and then get dressed. I comb out my hair before digging through the fridge, agonizing over my food options.

I swallow a lump in my throat and pull out the eggs again, beating them in a plastic cup before pouring them into a skillet to make a cheese omelet. I take out the leftover hamburger from the other day, too, throwing out the bun and toppings before heating the meat and cutting it into the tiniest square pieces on a plate. Once my omelet is done, I give it the same treatment.

I set the plate down on the counter and take a deep breath as I stare down at it from my barstool. I get that feelingagain—the one I get every fucking time I do this—like the inside of my mouth is sweating and my throat is closing up.

"It's just food," I say aloud. "You ate food for almost two decades, remember? I mean—fuck! Do you want to fucking die?!"

I jump when I hear the deadbolt turning.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised when Tate and Silas walk through the door.

"Are you killing someone?" Tate asks. "Who is it? The blonde guy? Can we watch?"

"No," I say firmly. "You need to get out. I'm doing something right now."

"You're not doing shit," Tate says, crossing the room toward the kitchenette. "What's for breakfast? Oh, there's more coffee. You want some coffee, Silas?"

"Yeah, I'll take some coffee. It's got to be better than that watery shit at the motel." He hops onto my bed, reclining with his feet out in front of him, and flips on the television.

"Guys…"

"That's a lot of Gatorade,sport. Do you have any fancy creamer or anything?" Tate asks, looking inside the fridge. Since I don't, he closes it a few seconds later, shrugging.

My eyes fill with tears. "Silas…"

"What?" Silas asks, setting the remote aside and jumping up, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"What is this?" Tate asks, stopping beside me. "Why's your food cut up into tiny little pieces like you're a fucking toddler?"

I blink, sending those tears rolling down my cheeks. "Get out!" I shout. "Stop making fun of me and get out!"

"Jesus, Noah," Tate says. "Chill."

"I can'tchill!I can't eat—that's why my food is cut into tiny pieces like I'm atoddler.My fridge is full of Gatorade because I get dizzy and lightheaded at work, and I'm afraid I'm going to pass out one day, and they'll call an ambulance. And if they call an ambulance, they'll figure out who I am. I'mstarving.Can't you tell? My hair is falling out, everything hurts, and I don't really need my birth control because I haven't had a period inmonths." I turn to Silas. "Please, please, I am begging you, Silas, please go. Make him go. I'll do whatever you want. I just need an hour so I can try to eat."

"I…didn't realize it was that bad," Silas says.

"Well, it is."

"Okay," he says, crossing the room toward me. "We'll go." He wraps his arms around me and leans down, kissing the top of my head. "I'm sorry."

I bury a sob into his chest.

"It'll be okay," he tells me, kissing me again. "We'll get through this. You'll get better, okay?"

We'll?

"Let's go," he says to Tate, who follows him out. I feel him look back at me once, but he says nothing before pulling the door closed behind him.

I pull the ribbing at the end of the sleeves of my hoodie over my hand, use it to wipe the tears away from my cheeks, and start the process of mentally preparing myself to take a bite of food all over again.

It's harder this time.

I take a bite of the omelet, grinding it in my back teeth until it's disintegrated to almost nothing, and hold it in my mouth until I work up the nerve to swallow. I repeat the process, and after I swallow the second bite, the door swings open again, and Tate steps inside alone.

"No," I say. "Go away, Tate."

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