But that night, at 2:47 a.m., he woke himself up scratching. The itch had burrowed deep—not on the surface, but somewhere behind the cartilage, a maddening, untouchable phantom. He lay in the dark, listening to Mariana’s soft breathing, and felt the faint crust of dried blood on his tragus.
But that night, at 2:47 a.m., he woke himself up scratching. The itch had burrowed deep—not on the surface, but somewhere behind the cartilage, a maddening, untouchable phantom. He lay in the dark, listening to Mariana’s soft breathing, and felt the faint crust of dried blood on his tragus.