“Soon. Are you going to cook?” she asks, putting her book down and looking up at me.

“I don’t know if there will be any cooking involved,” I admit. “But I can make you one hell of a sandwich. Do you want turkey? Ham? Roast beef? I have all three. I bought some Swiss, too.” I walk over to the thermostat on the wall and kick up the heat a few degrees. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Claire studying me. When I turn to look at her she blushes, as though she didn’t expect me to catch her doing it. “What are you looking at?” I ask.

Her blush deepens. “You are ridiculously good-looking,” she says. She looks away quickly, flustered. Like she didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. She’s always so careful around me, never saying anything overly suggestive.

I grin. “You think I’m good-looking?” I like knowing that she thinks so, and there’s no way I’m letting this go.

“I’m sure everyone thinks you’re good-looking,” she says. “Quit fishing.”

“Probably not everyone,” I say, crossing the room to sit next to her on the couch.

“Your false modesty is refreshing, but I’m not buying it. I can only imagine the propositions you receive when you pull women over.”

I snort. “I don’t get that many.”

“Sure,” she says.

“Okay, fine. I have, on occasion, been offered very specific acts in exchange for my leniency.”

“Awkward,” she says, making a face.

“Yeah.” I stand up and head toward the kitchen. Over my shoulder I say, “Turkey and Swiss?”

She says, “Yes, please,” just like I knew she would. They’re her favorite.

My mom calls while I’m making the sandwiches. I put down the knife and listen as she tells me how worried she is about Dylan. “I haven’t talked to him in ages. He’s not answering his phone, either,” she says.

I guarantee he’s answering his phone, just not when she calls. Dylan’s excellent at avoidance.

“Have you talked to him lately?” she asks.

“It’s been a few weeks but he sounded fine,” I say as I put the turkey and cheese away. “He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself, Mom.” I want to tell her to stop worrying about Dylan, but I don’t because she will anyway. “I’m sure he’ll make it home for Thanksgiving.” I’m not sure though. I’d place the odds at about fifty percent. “I’ll try to get a hold of him and if I do, I’ll call you back, okay?”

She says okay and when I hang up and walk back into the living room with the sandwiches, Claire doesn’t have the blanket on her lap anymore.

“Are you warmer now?” I ask.

She stares down at the floor and mumbles a response.

I can’t quite understand her. “Claire?”

She looks at me but her eyes are unfocused and she seems kind of out of it. Sweat dots her upper lip and forehead. I’ve never seen Claire sweat. Ever. And it’s not as though the room is that much warmer.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

She still won’t answer and it’s starting to freak me out a little. She says my name and tries to speak, but her words trail off and she slumps over on the couch as if she’s beyond exhausted.

“Claire. Claire!” I reach for her and pull her up.

“Stop it,” she says. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.” Clearly, she does need my help.

The realization of what’s happening to her suddenly hits me, and I rack my brain trying to recall what I read, what I should do when her blood sugar gets too low. I think about calling 911, but then I remember. Juice. Juice is best. Adrenaline courses through me as I hurry to the kitchen and grab the quart bottle of orange juice and a glass. I fill it to the top and when I return to the living room I have to set the glass on the coffee table so I can get my arms under Claire and help her sit up. She fights me and as she’s flailing about she lands a pretty good punch near my eye. She starts crying when I raise the glass to her lips and try to get her to open her mouth. “Come on,” I say. I tip the glass up and she coughs and sputters and hardly any of the juice goes down her throat. “Stop it, Claire!” I hold her jaw tight with one hand and I worry that I’m hurting her, but there’s no other way to keep her still. I try again and some of the juice actually makes it into her mouth but the rest runs down her chin and neck. “You have to drink this, Claire.” This time I tilt her head back a little and manage to get a decent amount into her. She finally stops struggling and starts working with me instead of against me, almost childlike in the way she follows my instructions. I help her take another drink and then I keep giving her sips until it’s all gone. She’s trembling and crying softly and taking these little gasping breaths. “Shhh, it’s okay,” I tell her. I set down the empty glass on the coffee table and rock her in my arms until she calms down.

“I’m cold, Daniel.” Grabbing the blanket, I throw it over Claire and pull her toward me so that her head rests on my chest. Eventually, when the shaking and the tears subside, she says, “I’m so embarrassed.”

I brush the hair back from her sweaty temples. “Hey, don’t be.” I’m suddenly aware of just how close our bodies are, and how tightly I’m holding Claire. Her head is tucked under my chin and I can smell her shampoo. “What happened?” I ask.

“I just had a little too much insulin in my system.” As much as I’d like to keep holding her I know I should probably feed her instead. I ease her off my chest. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I go to my room and grab a sweatshirt and when I get back to the living room I hand it to Claire. Her shirt is wet from all the juice that spilled. “Go change. There are towels in the bathroom if you want to wash the juice off.” I pull her to her feet and she stands, shaking a bit. “Do you need me to help you?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I can do it.” Reaching up, her fingers graze the skin near my eye. “Did I do that?”

I smile at her, to ease her concern. “I’ll live. You’ve got a decent right hook, though, especially when you’re pissed off.”

She walks back into the room a few minutes later, wearing my sweatshirt. We eat side by side on the couch. “Do you want to lie down for a while?” I ask when she finishes eating.

“Yes. I’m wiped out.” She stretches out on the couch and I cover her with the blanket. “Don’t let me sleep past two thirty, okay?”

“I won’t.” She closes her eyes and falls asleep instantly.

I click on the TV, keeping the volume low so I won’t wake her up. I watch an old movie on cable but every once in a while, just for a few seconds, I watch Claire sleep.

“I can drive you home in your car,” I tell her, after I wake her up. “One of the guys can meet me and bring me back here.”

“No. I’m fine. I feel much better now. Really.” She stretches and rubs her eyes. “I want to go home and take a shower and put on my comfiest pajamas.”

“Are you sure?”

She pulls out her pump and checks her readings. “I’m positive. Everything looks good.”

“You’ll text me the minute you’re home?” I ask.

“Of course.”

Claire gathers up her things and I help her on with her coat. Outside, the air feels even colder. I open her door but before she slides behind the wheel she says, “How did you know what to do?”

“I looked it up on the Internet one day. I didn’t know anything about diabetes. I wanted to know what to do if you ever needed help.”

She looks surprised, and like she might start crying again. “Lucky for me you like orange juice.”

“I don’t.”

“But you always have it in your fridge.”

“I keep it there for you.”

She looks into my eyes and holds my gaze as something unspoken passes between us. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Be careful, okay?”

“I will. I’ll text you as soon as I’m home.”

I close her door and twenty minutes later I get a text. I’m home.

I write back immediately. Good. Take it easy tonight.