Chapter 2 - Scraping By

“When was the last time you left the house?”
Valeria opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Her father waited.
“I went to the pharmacy.”
“When?”
“I don't know. Recently.”
“The one on Westbridge?”
“Yes.”
“That closed last month.”
Valeria paused.
“Oh.”
Her father stared at her.
“That isn't funny.”
“I didn't say it was.”
“You haven't left the house in over a month?”
“I guess not.”
He leaned back and rubbed a hand across his face.
“Come into town with me.”
“Dad—”
“Dinner. A walk. Anything. I haven't seen you in three weeks.”
“I know.”
“So come with me.”
Valeria looked down at the toast.
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“No.” She rubbed at one eye. Even sitting upright was beginning to feel like work. “I really can't.”
“You've been awake for less than an hour.”
“I know.”
“And you slept for fourteen.”
“I know.”
“Then how are you this tired?”
Valeria looked at him.
“I don't know.”
The frustration on his face sharpened.
“You're twenty-three, Valeria. You can't spend your whole life sleeping.”
“I know.”
“Then do something.”
“What?”
“Anything.”
“I can't.”
There was nothing else to say.
They had reached the same place they always did.
Her father looked at her as though there had to be another answer somewhere.
Valeria wished there was.
Finally, he looked away.
“Fine.”
He picked up his tablet.
“Go back to bed.”
It was exactly what she had been trying to do since she woke up.
Still, it didn't feel much like winning.
Valeria finished the last bite of toast.
When she stood, her father didn't look up.
“I'll see you later,” she said.
“Yeah.”
She made it to the doorway before stopping.
“I'm glad you're home.”
This time he looked at her.
“Me too.”

By the time Valeria reached the top of the stairs, even the blouse felt too heavy.
She changed back into her old shirt and dropped the clothes Mara had chosen onto the chair.
The bed was right there.
Her father was still downstairs.
She felt bad about that.
She was also so tired that keeping her eyes open had become an effort.
Both things could be true.
Valeria sat on the edge of the mattress and managed to kick off one sock.
The second seemed less important.
She lay down.
No bargaining with herself.
No promise to get up in an hour.
She knew better.
The pillow was cool beneath her cheek.
Her last coherent thought was that she should have said something better to her father.
Then even that became too much work.

The floor was filthy.
Valeria stared at it.
There was no kinder word for it.
Filthy.
Something dark and sticky had worked its way into the narrow line between two pale tiles.
A brush scraped across it.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Valeria watched the hand holding it.
Small hand.
Rough skin.
Short nails.
Not hers.
This was unfair.
She had finally gone back to sleep, and apparently her reward was cleaning a floor.
The brush scraped again.
Enough.
The hand continued.
Valeria frowned.
Enough.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Apparently not.
A bucket stood beside her knee, filled with water that had stopped being clean some time ago.
Someone walked past.
“Still working on that?”
Her head lifted.
A man in a dark green uniform stood nearby holding a mop.
“Supervisor wants the whole corridor done before shift change.”
Her mouth sighed.
“I know.”
Valeria did not know.
The man walked away.
Her hand returned to the stain.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Her knees hurt.
Again with the knees.
What was wrong with her dreams lately?
First gardening.
Now this.
Her subconscious had developed an alarming interest in manual labour.
She tried to stand.
Her body did not.
The hand dipped the brush into the bucket instead.
Fine.
Perhaps she deserved this.
A little.
The brush returned to the floor.
Eventually, a piece of whatever had dried between the tiles came loose.
Then another.
One last pass.
Clean.
Valeria stared at the line between the tiles.
A ridiculous little spark of satisfaction bloomed inside her.
There.
Done.
The hand moved toward the next tile.
Oh, come on.
The brush descended again.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Scrape.
At least someone was accomplishing something today.