She’s standing at a sink. Her hand drops guiltily. She was wiping her face with a white cloth. It’s the napkin from the Commons. The one she took. No, that I gave her. My stomach clenches.

The strands of hair that frame her face are damp. There’s a sheen on her forehead.

“Are you sick?” I take a step forward. She raises a hand, warding me off. My throat tightens.

“Go away.” Her voice is weak. “You can’t be in here.”

“You haven’t been eating.”

She stares at the floor at my feet, clutching the wet cloth tight in her fist.

“You keep leaving class.”

Her breasts rise as she...