Mona’s room smelled rotten and sweet. Francine and I stood in the doorway and watched her sleep: drawnface pasted above twisted sheets. Dread bloomed between my teeth as I turned to Francine. “What’s wrong with her?” I whispered.
David drifted down the hallway in a long black wig. “Mona’s a gloomy lush,” he hissed.
Francine rolled her eyes. “Cancer and history are eat Mona’s guts. She only drinks for relief.”
David grabbed the peach and set it on Mona’s bedside table. “She wakes up and needs sweets—to curb the shakes,” he explained.