Shawn was asleep.
Deeply asleep, thanks to the pills.
But then…
BAM! BAM! BAM!
A loud noise shook the walls of his apartment.
Shawn frowned in his sleep but didn't open his eyes.
'Fucking neighbors…' he thought vaguely, rolling over in bed and burying his face in the pillow.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
The noise continued.
Louder.
More insistent.
Shawn clenched his teeth and pulled the pillow over his head.
'Shut up…' he thought, irritation starting to build. 'Just shut the hell up…'
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
'Are they seriously trying to break down a door!?' Shawn thought, pressing the pillow harder against his ears.
And then he heard a voice.
"SHAWN!"
Shawn's eyes snapped open.
"SHAWN, OPEN THE DOOR!"
That voice.
He recognized it almost instantly.
It was Sarah.
His sister.
Shawn sat up in bed as fast as his body allowed—which wasn't very fast, considering his muscles still felt stiff and his back ached.
'Sarah?' he thought, blinking several times as he tried to process the situation. 'What the hell is Sarah doing here?'
BAM! BAM! BAM!
"SHAWN! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE! OPEN UP!"
Shawn got out of bed with difficulty.
His legs were weak.
His head was still processing the fact that he'd just been ripped out of the best sleep he'd had in days.
But at the same time, he felt something.
Relief.
A small, almost insignificant relief, but relief nonetheless.
Because when he first heard those bangs, his mind had jumped to the worst possible scenarios.
That it was the police.
That someone from the internet had found his real address.
That it was a debt collector.
That it was a mob coming to lynch him for what he'd said online.
But no.
It was Sarah.
Just Sarah.
'Thank God,' Shawn thought, shuffling toward the front door.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
"SHAWN TURNER, I SWEAR IF YOU DON'T OPEN THIS DOOR I'M GOING TO—"
"Okay, okay, okay!" Shawn shouted from the other side, approaching the door. "Calm down! Stop yelling and making a scene—you're going to bother the neighbors!"
"I'm not calming down until I'm inside!" Sarah shot back with the same intensity.
Shawn let out a long sigh.
He undid the lock.
Turned the knob.
And opened the door.
Sarah stood in front of him.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wore a gray jacket, jeans, and sneakers. Her face was flushed—probably from the effort of pounding on the door for who knows how long.
And her eyes…
Her eyes were staring at him with an intensity Shawn knew all too well.
It was the "I'm about to kill you" look.
Sarah raised her right hand.
Shawn saw his sister's palm speeding toward his face.
'She's going to slap me,' he thought, instinctively closing his eyes.
But the hit never came.
Shawn cracked one eye open.
Sarah's hand had stopped centimeters from his cheek.
Trembling.
She slowly lowered her hand.
Her expression changed.
The anger was still there, but now there was something else.
Worry.
"Are you sick?" Sarah asked, looking him up and down.
Shawn blinked.
"What? No," he replied, scratching his head. "I'm fine."
Sarah narrowed her eyes.
"Liar," she said firmly.
"I'm not lying," Shawn insisted.
"Oh, really?" Sarah said, crossing her arms. "Then why do you have dark circles that look like they were drawn with a marker? Why are you skinnier than the last time I saw you? Why is your skin so pale you look like a ghost? And why do you smell like you haven't showered in three days?"
Shawn discreetly sniffed his arm.
'Okay… maybe she has a point about that last one,' he thought.
"I'm not sick," he repeated, shrugging. "This is just me."
"This is just you?" Sarah repeated, incredulous. "Since when does 'this is just you' include looking like a walking corpse?"
"Exaggerating," Shawn muttered.
Sarah didn't respond.
Instead, she brushed past him and walked into the apartment without asking permission.
Shawn stood in the doorway, watching her enter.
"Come on in," he said sarcastically. "Mi casa es su casa."
Sarah ignored him and headed straight for the kitchen.
And stopped.
Shawn watched as his sister stared at the disaster on the table, the counter, the sink.
Stacks of empty hamburger boxes piled on top of each other.
Crumpled french fry wrappers.
Used napkins scattered everywhere.
Paper bags from various fast-food places.
Sarah slowly turned toward Shawn.
"What is this?" she asked in a calm voice.
Too calm.
Shawn knew that tone.
It was the tone she used right before exploding.
"Food," he answered.
"I know it's food," Sarah said, pointing at the boxes. "What I want to know is if you're trying to speedrun your own death as fast as possible."
Shawn frowned.
"What are you talking about?"
"THIS!" Sarah exclaimed, grabbing one of the empty boxes and holding it up in front of him. "Hamburgers! Fries! More hamburgers! Do you have any idea what saturated fats do to your body? Do you know how much sodium is in just one of these? Do you know what happens to your heart when you eat like this every day?"
"You're exaggerating," Shawn said, leaning against the kitchen doorway.
Sarah dropped the box and walked to the trash can.
She opened it.
And stared at the contents.
Cans.
Lots of cans.
Crushed soda cans stacked on top of each other, filling the bin almost to the brim.
Sarah pulled out one can and held it up in front of Shawn.
"How many of these do you drink a day?" she asked.
Shawn looked away.
"I don't know. Two. Three."
"Two or three?" Sarah repeated, glancing at the overflowing trash. "Shawn, there are at least twenty cans in here. How many days have you been living like this?"
Shawn didn't answer.
Sarah dropped the can back into the trash.
"At this point I wouldn't be surprised if you're already diabetic," she said, shaking her head.
"Exaggerating," Shawn repeated.
"Exaggerating?" Sarah said, raising her voice. "Do you know what sugary drinks do? Each one of those cans has almost forty grams of sugar. Forty. That's more than a person should consume in an entire day. And you're drinking three a day. That's without counting all the sugar already in the burgers, the buns, the sauces, the fries. Your pancreas is working overtime to process all that junk. And when your pancreas finally gives out—because it will—you're going to end up injecting insulin for the rest—"
"Sarah," Shawn interrupted, raising a hand. "Calm down a bit. My head hurts."
Sarah stopped.
She stared at him.
"Your head hurts?" she repeated, narrowing her eyes. "Then you are sick."
"I'm not sick," Shawn said, rubbing his temples. "I just woke up. And the first thing I get is a screaming banshee banging on my door. Of course my head hurts."
"Who are you calling a screaming banshee!?" Sarah exclaimed.
"You," Shawn replied without hesitation.
Sarah clenched her fists.
Took a deep breath.
And slowly exhaled.
"Fine," she said, in a tone that was trying to be calm but was clearly holding back a lot of rage. "Fine. I'm not going to argue with you about that right now."
Shawn raised an eyebrow.
'Really?' he thought, not believing her for a second.
"What I am going to do…" Sarah continued, walking toward the kitchen with determined steps, "is make you a decent breakfast. Because clearly you're incapable of feeding yourself like a normal person."
Shawn watched her head to the fridge.
Sarah opened the door.
Looked inside.
And went silent.
The fridge was practically empty.
No vegetables.
No fruit.
No meat.
No eggs.
No milk.
Nothing.
Sarah slowly closed the fridge.
She turned toward Shawn.
Her expression was unreadable.
"Shawn," she said in a low voice.
"What?" he replied.
"Are you an idiot?"
Shawn blinked.
"How do you have absolutely nothing in the fridge?" Sarah continued, pointing at it. "Nothing! Not a single egg! Not a piece of bread! Nothing!"
"I think I have ketchup," Shawn said.
"Ketchup isn't food, Shawn!"
Shawn let out a long sigh and rubbed a hand over his face.
'This is going to be a very long morning,' he thought, feeling the headache start to intensify.