[ Martha narrows her eyes at him across the small space that separates them, every tiny bump and asphalt seam jostling against her spine on the door. No one is that good. No one is that good. And sometimes she wonders — when the dreams are worst, when she wets the bed, when she tears at her hair and shrieks over and over again we have to leave — did she make him up in her head?
(Sometimes the answer is yes and sometimes it's the worst and sometimes it's the best.) ]
no subject
(Sometimes the answer is yes and sometimes it's the worst and sometimes it's the best.) ]
Yeah, but would you tell me if you weren't?