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“You say that now, then you’ll smell my breakfast burrito and steal it.”

“I have never stolen a burrito.”

“You did last night.”

I freeze. “I what?”

He nods. “You took mine. Didn’t even blink. You ate the whole thing.”

I stare at him, horrified. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“You growled.”

“What?”

“You growled at me.”

I drop my face into my hands. “I hate myself.”

“You good?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “But I feel less like dying now.”

“Good. Then you can walk.”

He grabs the tent zipper and opens it. Light floods in, making my eyes burn. I hiss and pull back.

Griffin shakes his head. “Come on, Pipes.”

“Carry me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

I reach up and hold onto his hoodie strings. “You’re heartless.”

“And you need hydration.”

He pulls me up by the wrists as if I’m a toddler learning to stand. My legs wobble, but he steadies me by the waist, and for a moment, the tent falls very quiet.

Very warm.

I swallow hard. “Breakfast?”

“And coffee before you cry again.”

I close my eyes. “I want to go home.”

“You are home,” he says, tugging me out of the tent. “It’s called suffering. Now walk.”

And I do.

Very slowly.

With great pain.