Page 100 of The Turning of the Tables

“You’re going to damage your nose,” Noah told me as he pointed us toward home.

I didn’t suggest that it would be better if I did, because then I wouldn’t be hypersmelling everything all the time, but I knew that would likely upset him, so I didn’t. “I don’t plan on making a habit of it,” was what I said, instead.

“Did it work?” he asked, finally.

“I’m pretty sure I found what we were trying to identify, yeah.”

“Pretty sure?”

“By the end of three hours, things were a little fuzzier than I’d like. I’m going to give it another test tomorrow.”

“Another sniff, you mean?”

“Yeah.” When my sinuses no longer felt like they were trying to bleed out my nostrils. I’d even checked with my fingers a couple of times to make sure my nose wasn’t bleeding—running, yes, but no blood so far. I chose not to mention that to Noah, either.

“Other than that, how’s work?” Noah asked as he pulled into the apartment parking lot, after we’d driven home in mostly in silence.

“Shit,” I answered truthfully.

Noah looked over, startled. “What happened?” he asked, alarmed.

“Nothing happened,” I replied, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “I can’tdoanything. I drop half of everything I pick up—beakers, petri dishes, pens, a tablet, my phone…” I sighed. “I’m useless in the lab. I can do paperwork and I can push buttons. But I can’t dust for prints, I can’t handle anything breakable, and I have to sit down every fifteen minutes or pass out.” I didn’t tell him about the surges of emotion and frustration that led to near-shifts at least once every few hours.

“You’re still recovering,” Noah said, his voice soothing. “It will get better.” He scowled as he shut the door of hislittle blue Honda. “They shouldn’t be asking you to go back so soon.”

“Yeah, well, they did,” I snapped back, forcing myself to start up the stairs. Then I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Sorry, Nono. I’m just tired and frustrated.”

He put his arm around my waist—mostly. “It’s okay, Sethy. I understand.”

I nodded, then let him guide me up the stairs and into the apartment, where I collapsed on the couch, deliberately keeping myself mostly upright so that I wouldn’t have to expend the energy to sit up straighter when Noah brought me food.

He’d made chili—ground turkey, beans, tomatoes, peppers, jalapeños, corn, hominy—and cornbread slathered with vegan butter and honey.

It was good, even though I could barely smell it around the chemical burns in my nose. Well, ‘barely’ by my new standards, which was almost as good as it had been before shifting had supercharged my olfactory senses.

I ate four bowls, actually feeling full—something that had become rare, particularly following the meals I ate at work. I was still self-conscious about eating so much that I felt full around anyone but Noah, even though I knew it was foolish. I was too thin and needed to eat more, but it was hard to control the nausea that came with every anxiety-ridden moment of my day outside the safety of the apartment. It was easier to eat a little, slowly, than it was to carry around the amount of food I needed in my stomach alongside the churning acid of anxiety.

Noah took my dishes. “What should we watch next?”

We’d been going through movies and finished tv series that we could binge start to finish if we were so inclined—except that I kept falling asleep and missing things, and then Noah had to rewatch parts of them.

“I think I should go to bed,” I told him. “I’m still exhausted.”

Noah nodded, trying to keep the disappointment from his face. “Okay. You need help?”

I shook my head, pushing myself to my feet and grimacing at the stabbing pain that throbbed through my knee. “No, I’m okay.” I could get myself to bed.

I wasn’t actually okay.

But curling up and hoping I really was tired enough that I’d lose consciousness fairly quickly seemed like a great way to not have to deal with any of the emotions I was experiencing. Or the pain. The question was whether or not the pain was going to overrule the exhaustion.

26

SETH MAYS

Did you ever shift in your sleep?

ELLIOT CRANE