Darry had been asleep for over an hour, his work boots still by the door. Ponyboy had passed out on the couch with a book open on his chest, and Soda had crashed in your shared room after a long shift at the DX, mumbling something about a truck engine that wouldn't quit.

You'd been lying awake for what felt like hours now, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, your stomach twisting in that strange, unsettled way it had been doing all day.

Three days. Three days of feeling like you'd swallowed something wrong, like the world was tilting just slightly off its axis.

You'd told yourself it was a bug. Something you ate. The heat, maybe.

The window creaked.