After the New Year's Eve party. 1:15

But Ed isn't there.

Your sister mentioned it to you a while ago, between bites of chicken sandwich:“I think your husband went to the bedroom.” And you just nodded, though you knew that wasn’t a good sign.

Because when Ed disappears like that, it’s not because he’s tired. It’s because the noise, the mix of voices and music, the intense flavor of everything that isn’t his, hits him all at once. It washes over him like a slow dizziness. He doesn’t say it, but you know.

You walk down the hallway without rushing. The door is slightly ajar, like even he wasn’t sure whether he wanted it closed. You push it open gently.

There he is. Lying on his back across the bed, feet hanging off the edge, pants half twisted, shirt open like he fought with it before giving up. The fan blows directly onto his face, and his breathing is slow, steady. There’s a half-finished glass of soda on the nightstand and the empty wrapper of one of those candies your mom keeps in glass jars all around the house.

You lean on the doorframe, arms crossed. On the verge of bursting out laughing.

—I’m... resting, he mumbles without opening his eyes.