Page 474 of End Game

From the living room, Micah calls, “You muted yours an hour ago.”

Dex twists around. “That was temporary.”

“Still muted.”

Dex checks. “Oh.”

I laugh. “Very reassuring.”

He unmutes it. “There. Guardian angel restored.”

“You are nobody's guardian angel.”

“Rude.”

I continue upstairs. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Dollface.”

The words follow me down the hall.

Easy.

Normal.

Around ten, I shower.

Mostly because I finally feel comfortable enough to.

The hot water helps the general ache from a day spent alternating between my laptop and increasingly stupid positions in bed.

While I'm getting dressed, I twist in front of the mirror enough to check the Pod.

Adhesive still looks intact.

No blood.

No wetness where it doesn’t belong.

Nothing angry around the edges that I can see.

It doesn't hurt.

My glucose has drifted back up after dinner, but nothing about the pattern feels dramatically different from the rest of the day.

Then 248.

By the time I climb into bed, Dexcom reads 253 with a sideways arrow.

Annoying.

Not racing.

I poke my finger and check with the meter anyway.

249

Close enough.