Page 134 of Keller

"What did you have?"

I can't remember. The question lands somewhere distant, and my brain refuses to retrieve the answer. There was wine, maybe crackers. Nothing solid comes to mind.

"It doesn't matter." I wave my hand dismissively. "Let's just finish the loop."

"We're walking the rest." His tone leaves no room for argument. "I'm not dragging you back if you pass out."

I'm not going to pass out.

But I do not fight him on it. The pain has faded to a dull ache, barely noticeable now, but something lingers beneath it. An echo of sensation that whispers this is not normal.

We walk side by side. Nate shortens his stride to match mine without making it obvious. The sun beats down on the crown of my head, and my scalp is starting to burn where my hair parts.

Stress. Exhaustion. The emotional wreckage of the last week or so is finally catching up. I'm barely getting to the point that Keller occupies my every waking thought.

That is all this is. My body is responding to the chaos I have been suppressing since Keller walked out my door.

"You should take some time off," Nate says quietly.

"I just got promoted."

"Exactly."

I don't respond. The parking area comes into view, and I focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

The discomfort does not fully disappear over the next several days. It comes and goes without warning. A twinge in the grocery store. A sharper pull while sitting at my desk. Nothing dramatic enough to warrant attention, but persistent enough that I cannot ignore it entirely.

Monday morning, I pour my usual cup of coffee from the break room pot. The first sip hits my tongue, and I set the mug down immediately.

The blend is the same one I have been drinking for three years. Dark roast, nothing fancy. But today it tastes like someone dissolved a handful of pennies in the carafe.

I dump the cup and try again with a fresh pour. Same result. Metallic and sharp, coating the inside of my mouth in a way that makes my throat tighten.

I make a note to clean the pot after the coffee's gone. Someone else might drink that muck, but I'm not. I'll walk down to the café during my break.

I grab water from the cooler and head to my desk.

By Wednesday, I'm kicking myself for not cleaning the damn pot. I always remember when it's full. So, I switch to black tea. The tea gives me the caffeine boost I need, but it does nothing to cut through the fog that settles behind my eyes every afternoon around two o'clock.

The exhaustion comes in waves. It's not the normal tiredness that follows a bad night of sleep. This is deeper. Heavier. It pulls at my limbs and makes my thoughts move slowly. It's starting to really get on my nerves.

Maybe Nate's right. Maybe I need a few good days away, a reset.

Thursday afternoon, I excuse myself from my desk and walk to the restroom at the end of the hall. The fluorescent lights humoverhead, harsh and bright. I make it to the last stall before my stomach empties itself.

Afterward, I lean against the cool metal partition and wait for my hands to stop shaking. The taste in my mouth is sour and wrong. My forehead is damp with sweat.

I ate leftover Thai food for lunch. The container sat in the fridge for four days. Probably too long. Definitely too long.

I rinse my mouth at the sink and check my reflection. Pale. Shadows under my eyes that makeup cannot hide anymore. My cheeks look hollow in a way that makes me look older than thirty.

I straighten my blazer and return to my desk.

Friday afternoon, Martin appears in my doorway. He leans against the frame, arms crossed, studying me with that quiet attention that misses nothing.

"Are you still having those cramps?"

"It's more of a dull ache. I'm good."