72

We woke up about ten, to her phone full of texts and missed calls from her friend Zoey. We were both starving and exhausted, our heads still clouded in a hangovered way, and even if we didn’t say it, eager to try the oil again.

“I can’t log in like this,” she said, dragging her feet after me to the kitchen. “I’m calling in sick.”

I glanced at her. The way she raised her eyebrows was a whole speech. That was the first time we both called in sick since I’d joined her in the West Coast. I couldn’t say anything along the line of feeling under the weather, because they would make me quarantine at home for days, and they’d only admit me back into the Square after three negative tests in a week. I didn’t want to be stuck at home around the clock for so long, so I said I’d tripped on the stairs and twisted my ankle bad. One of the Square nurses told me to rest for the day and apply ice and anti-inflammatory cream, and that was it.

While we wolfed down brunch, Steph obviously asked about the o