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“You still need to eat.”

“I know.” I lean back in the chair, wrapping my arms around myself.

“Then eat.”

I let out a frustrated breath and rub my forehead. “Jules, I can't.”

He studies me carefully. “You feel sick?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

I drop my hand and look toward the sandwich again. The sight of it makes my stomach protest all over again.

“I don't know. The thought of food just makes me want to push it away.”

The look he gives me makes me regret saying anything.

“Maybe stress,” he says.

I shrug. “Probably.”

He crosses one ankle over his knee and continues studying me. “Maybe trauma.”

“Definitely.”

“Maybe your body finally realized your life is ridiculous.”

I smile reluctantly. “That too.”

For a moment, things almost feel normal. Then my phone rings. I reach for it automatically, but confusion creeps in when I see the caller's name.

Mr. Harrison.

My landlord.

“That’s odd,” I mumble.

Jules notices the screen.

“What happened?”

“I don't know yet.”

An uneasy feeling crawls over me before I even answer. I press accept and lift the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Miss Maggie?”

The familiar grandfatherly voice puts me on edge. Something’s wrong.

“Yes, sir?”

“Well now, I hope I'm not botherin’ you,” he says.

My fingers tighten around the phone. “Not at all. Is everythin’ alright?”