“Get the window.” Her voice is wet with sleep. She elbows Thomas lightly and he sits up. “Open it, let it out.”
But he is already out of bed, chasing the bird around the room in nothing but his socks. He is thinner than ever; his legs: sticks; his stomach: a wrung sponge. Light from the cracked window pools in his hips. Johanna pulls the blanket up over her head but he grabs one corner and tugs until she tumbles off the bed.
She is thinner too, her breasts small and peaked in the night air. But her hips are still wide, her thighs strong as ever. She stands, pulling the blanket tight and holding it over her head.
Johanna gropes behind her with one hand, finds the doorknob. She twists and the door jumps open. They shake the blanket until the bird zigzags out.
They stand laughing in the open doorway, naked, sweating, starting to shiver, trying to watch the bird fly away, losing it against the clouds. The parking lot is scattered with old cars and RVs angled haphazardly between the evenly-spaced, perfectly parallel white lines. A tall patch of ragweed and a chain link fence, then the mumbling highway stretching from dark to dark between bubbles of grainy yellow streetlight. A caravan of early morning delivery trucks rumbles past, downshifting up the hill to the black silhouette of the hospital.
Johanna’s laugh fades first. “I don’t like sleeping through the night,” she says.
“Sometimes she’d wake us up every hour. Remember?”
“Don’t use that word. Not about her. I don’t want to have to.”