sevenIn the afternoon, I stop by Marjorie’s room, since she wasn’t at breakfast or lunch. It’s strange for me not to see her at all during a day. I’m a little worried about her failure to appear.
I have to knock twice before I get an answer, and then it’s just a faint sound of her voice, telling me to come in from inside.
I open the door and walk into an apartment that is set up very similarly to mine—only Marjorie doesn’t have the corner with windows on two walls or a patio.
It feels strange and unnerving to walk into a dark room in the middle of the afternoon. It feels off, wrong, with all the blinds closed and none of the lamps or overhead lights on.
“Oh dear,” I say, walking farther in and seeing that Marjorie is lying in bed under the covers. “Are you sick?”
“Just not feeling up
