Some time later, Ryan’s mother raps on the
door, a loud, annoying sound that threatens to wake Dante. Ryan,
dressed again, is at the computer, and on the bed, Dante is buried
beneath the covers. When Ryan wheels around the end of the bed, his
boyfriend mumbles something incoherent and pulls the blanket up
over his head. “Mother!” Ryan hisses, opening the door before she
can knock again. “Jesus, he’s trying to sleep.”
“I didn’t know—” she
starts.
Ryan takes Dante’s clothes from her, washed
and folded and still slightly warm from the dryer. “Well, now you
do,” he mutters. When she tries to step into the room, he blocks
her path with his wheelchair. “What? He’s lying down.” He
practically closes the door in her face.
Setting the clothes at the foot of the bed,
Ryan returns to t
