I’m foraging in G17, trying to ignore Derwyn, trying not to be annoyed that he’s been following me all day and done nothing but talk on his phone, piss upwind, and ask me “are you almost done yet” more times than my nieces when I’m in the bathroom. I’m trying—and failing.

It’s cold outside, but I’m sweating. I’m hungry but nauseous. I want to be alone, but I want Preston, and I hate that I want him here. I want to knock myself out with a frying pan like a cartoon character. I’d settle for drinking myself unconscious, but I can hardly keep water down.

If Derwyn says, “How ‘bout...