Time for Andrew
“"Where have you been?" I asked. "Haven't you heard me calling you every single night?" "Believe me, you've made enough noise to raise the dead—which I very nearly was, in spite of your modern medicine and hospitals and such." Eyeing me glumly, Andrew sat down on a trunk. "I hope you haven't called me up here to switch places." Taken by surprise, I stared at him. "What do you mean? Don't you want to go home?" "Not yet, not till I'm stronger." He pulled up his pajama sleeve and showed me his arm.... "See that? I'm just skin and bones. I look like death warmed over." He shuddered at the image, but I was too upset to feel sorry for him. "I don't want to be you anymore," I said. "I want to be me, I want to go home." "Give me more time," Andrew begged. "Please, Drew." "You've had three weeks," I said. "That's long enough." He fidgeted with the trunk's lock, flipping it up and down. "Couldn't we swap for keeps?" I stared at him. "You aren't serious," I whispered, "you can't be." Andrew huddled on the trunk, his arms wrapped around his knees, his face hidden.MoreLess
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