He doesn’t move.
Honestly, I don’t have the energy to fight him.
I do the test.
Then I set it on the counter.
And suddenly there are three minutes I have to survive.
Three minutes that feel like three hours.
I force myself to move.
Distraction.
Housework.
Anything.
I step out of the bathroom and start tidying the bedroom with frantic energy.
I straighten the pillows on the bed even though they don’t need straightening. I pick up a stray sock from the floor. I smooth the duvet like a hotel maid.
I even start humming, likenothing to see here.
Negative, I tell myself.
It’ll be negative.
And then I’ll feel stupid and relieved and I’ll buy myself a pastry as a reward for not losing my mind.
Bear watches me, head tilted.
“I’m fine,” I tell him in my new sing-song voice, that makes me sound like an utter maniac.
He wags his tail.
I glance at the clock.
The three minutes are up.
Okay.
My heart is beating way too fast.
I step into the bathroom.
The test sits on the counter where I left it.
I stare at it for a second too long without moving closer.
Then I force myself forward.
I pick it up.
And the world tilts.
Two lines.
