He had his hands on his knees, and they wouldn’t settle.

“You’re shaking,” I said.

“Cold.”

It was seventy-eight degrees in that room.

The window was up, and the fan was going.

He got up, and his right hand went back to his hip and touched it, quickly, the way a man checks for his keys.

Then he was in the hallway, and the television came on.

I drank the chamomile.