Page 473 of End Game

The house moves around me in its normal evening rhythm.

Micah comes home from a single appointment he had at the shop.

Dex disappears for a while and returns carrying takeout he claims he acquired because “none of you appreciate the importance of emotional-support noodles.”

Ronan works downstairs until after seven.

Everyone asks how I'm doing at least once.

No one hovers.

Mostly because I threaten violence when Dex tries.

“You are on probation,” I tell him when he follows me toward the stairs.

“I am checking on the patient.”

“I am not your patient.”

“Fine. The token household diabetic.”

“Worse.”

He leans against the banister. “Your number still sucks.”

“I know.”

“Do we care?”

“Nope.”

His forehead creases. “Because infection?”

“Yes.”

“And Griffin agrees.”

“Yes.”

“And you checked the stabby blood thing.”

“Ketones.”

“The stabby ketone thing.”

“Yes. They were basically nonexistent.”

Dex nods, visibly filing that under information I do not fully understand but trust Cami about. “Okay.”

Then his eyes narrow. “If it goes stupid-high, though—”

“My phone will scream.”

“So will ours,” Micah assures him.

“Unless you muted yours,” I add. He looks offended.

“I would never.”