I woke more than three hours later to a quiet house, and to Christopher sitting on the edge of the bed scrolling his phone.

“You went right out,” he said, not looking up.

“Blood sugar, probably.

You’ve been working too hard all week.”

And I noticed, waking, that my clothes were disarranged in a way I could not account for — the small, wrong details that a body registers before the mind will let itself understand them.

I told myself I had done it in my sleep, tossing and turning.

I told myself a great many reasonable things.