“You say that now, then you’ll smell my breakfast burrito and steal it.”
“I have never stolen a burrito.”
“You did last night.”
I freeze. “I what?”
He nods. “You took mine. Didn’t even blink. You ate the whole thing.”
I stare at him, horrified. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
“You growled.”
“What?”
“You growled at me.”
I drop my face into my hands. “I hate myself.”
“You good?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “But I feel less like dying now.”
“Good. Then you can walk.”
He grabs the tent zipper and opens it. Light floods in, making my eyes burn. I hiss and pull back.
Griffin shakes his head. “Come on, Pipes.”
“Carry me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
I reach up and hold onto his hoodie strings. “You’re heartless.”
“And you need hydration.”
He pulls me up by the wrists as if I’m a toddler learning to stand. My legs wobble, but he steadies me by the waist, and for a moment, the tent falls very quiet.
Very warm.
I swallow hard. “Breakfast?”
“And coffee before you cry again.”
I close my eyes. “I want to go home.”
“You are home,” he says, tugging me out of the tent. “It’s called suffering. Now walk.”
And I do.
Very slowly.
With great pain.
