The way Lark says this, the acceptance, reminds Oli of Lark’s shyness, his unwillingness to speak at all until Oli prompts him. Lark has warmed to him quickly, though. He’s commenting on the next photo already, trying to steer himself away from the shadow of anger and hurt in the memory.

“I hadn’t traveled much. Like, now that I’ve toured and whatever, I know there are plenty of oddball hotels and things, but I was just really weirded out by the trashcan in the shower. Did they think I would be, what? Throwing out a candy wrapper while I conditioned?”

“I guess that’s pretty weird,” Oli agrees.

“It really bothered me. But I was up most of the night puking, so I guess my brain was fried. Maybe that’s what it was for, actually. If you’re showering and also being sick. That way you don’t make a mess.”

“Or for disposable razors?” Oli offers. “Or for the little hotel size shampoo bottles, when you’re done with them?”

Lark nods at that. “I mean, yeah. I don’t think that’s really urgent enough to warrant an extra trash can in the shower, but I guess it’s convenient.”

There’s silence between them as the idea dries up. Lark hasn’t managed to claw away from the shadow of his worst feelings. He tucks his hair back behind his ears and looks at his hands. “I’m keeping you up. Sorry.”

Oli shakes his head. “I won’t sleep anyway. It’s nice to have some company.”

“You don’t have to stay up with me,” Lark tells him.

“I know,” Oli says. “Am I bothering you?”

Lark looks surprised at this idea. It doesn’t occur to him that Oli is in the room where he should be sleeping, that Oli had come downstairs and turned on the lights in the middle of the night. “Oh, no. Not at all.” What was bothering Lark was a lingering suspicion of Oli’s kindness, his apparent interest in the photo collection, his gentle attention. “Did Reed tell you about me?”

“Umm, a little bit,” Oli says. There’s no tell in his voice, and Lark doesn’t know what Reed might have said. There are many years of history between Lark and Oli’s boyfriend; Lark knows there’s a lot Reed could cherry pick.

He hopes that Oli might like him without pity. That they might be friends. There’s a relief in being visited so late at night. In his house, he’s largely ignored. There’d be a fuss, though, if he was found awake much past midnight: What are you doing? Why aren’t you sleeping? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay?

“What happened when you got to Portland?” Oli prompts.

Lark closes his eyes.

I was sick every half hour until we crossed into New Jersey and picked up I-80 for the long haul. I was wrung out by then, exhausted in the backseat but not asleep. Max took over driving and refused to stop for me when my nausea peaked.

You’re not bringing anything up, he said. What’s the point?

The point is, I’m dying? I answered between silent retches over an empty plastic bag. It had a smiley face on it. Thank You! printed beneath in a cheery italic Comic Sans. God, I feel sick.

We just kept driving. There was the treeline at the edge of a highway whipping past. I was lying in the backseat of the car, then sleeping on the floors of motel bathrooms at the end of the day. Dana woke me in the morning, saying: I’m sorry, but I really need to go. Then: Are you feeling better?

I wasn’t. The second day was worse. I drank Gatorade and tried to keep it down as long as I could. Max turned up the radio to drown out my gagging. Dana’s hand reached towards me from the front seat, reaching like she could catch me from falling.

We stopped in Iowa to take band photos at the James T Kirk future birthplace, a detour we’d all agreed upon in the comparative comfort of last week, back home. I felt self-conscious: Max and I had long-hair and skinny jeans and lurid shirts in teals and pinks, and I didn’t feel at home in the middle of this sweet little town. Max thought it would be funny to get a shot of me puking on the monument, preferably while he played air guitar in the foreground. Dana told us to stop being disgusting.

Dana’s photos came out looking sad and eerie. In all of them, I was pale and unsmiling, usually sitting on the ground, my head tipped back against the marker stone; Max staged a series of desperate poses. We ended up using one of the two of us, both sitting under Captain Kirk’s name, eyes closed and heads together, as the profile picture on our MySpace.

Dana and Max went into a diner to eat afterward. I opted to stay in the car and baked in the sun like a dog, locked in by exhaustion. I opened the door eventually to spit bile, then laid there limp, letting the breeze come in. Outside the car, I was able to hear Dana and Max talking about me.

We should take him to the hospital, Dana said. He’s definitely dehydrated.

Max said: We won’t make it to Portland in time. Then: He just has a stomach bug. He’ll be fine.

How long do you have to be sick for before it’s dangerous?

I didn’t know, and neither did Max. The answer didn’t seem to matter. We moved relentlessly forward.

Even the next day, when I was able, at least, to keep down some water, there was no way I could drive. Max was annoyed about it, tired himself, on edge. Every day until we reached Portland, he was growling over the steering wheel: We can’t stop. Go back to sleep.