Then we sat. He sat on the floor with his back against her dresser, the way he obviously always did — there was a dent in the carpet there, I saw it in the moon-shapes, a patch worn flat — and after a second I got down off the bed and sat beside him. The carpet was rough under me. The dresser knobs pressed into my back. Her phone glowed on the bed above us. Sixty-one. Sixty-three. Sixty-seven, arrow sideways.
"I told you to go to bed," I whispered.
"I was in bed."
"You know what I mean."
"I heard it." He shrugged in the dark. "I always hear it. I hear it before it goes off now. I wake up at like two-fifty. Every night. Even on the weekends when you're home. I just lie there till it goes."
"Kel."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine." I leaned my head back against the dresser. "None of this is fine. I want you to know I know that."
He didn't answer. Seventy-four. Seventy-nine.
"I'm going to call Abeyta on Monday," I said. "And tell her everything. All of it. I'm going to tell her she's been low almost every night for six months. Nobody knew that. Do you understand? Nobody at the clinic knew that. Every time they looked at the numbers they thought it was fine, because it came back up. Because you brought it back up. Her dose has probably been wrong since spring."
"I thought that," he said. "I thought maybe. I looked it up once, about the basal. I didn't know how to tell anybody without telling."
"I know."