SIXTEEN

Chilly wind flips the soft, white binders of the great window in my bedroom. I shudder, my own arms proving a great failure in keeping me warm. Tentatively, throwing the sketching book lying in my tummy aside, I rise on my elbows and sit up. My body feels torpid.

How long have I been sleeping? It's still afternoon . . . Or evening? I can't clearly tell as it's a bit cloudy outside. It's raining once again—just lightly this time. My mouth stretches into a long yawn as I drop my bare feet down the fluffy rug, ready to face the music.

My gaze settles on the T-shirt I'm wearing, barely covering my thighs, and somehow the guilt lashes on me. Why did I raise my voice at Red? He didn't do anything wrong, did he? God, what have I done? I sigh remorsefully at the realization of my mistake.

I take my sketching book from the bed and peek a quick glance at the few designs I made before I fell asleep. Holy cow! Did I just do this? A smile touches the corner of my lips as I behold the drawings of se