Half past one, and Ramona is asleep on the couch again, curled on her side with one arm under her head, the cooking show she left on murmuring with the sound down. She does not stir when you cross the room, or when the floorboard under you complains. She only wakes when you stop beside the couch, her hand finding your wrist before her eyes are open, her thumb pressing your pulse like she is checking you came home whole.
"Sweetie."
She is not fully awake, but the fussing is already gathering.
"Go back to bed. It's late."
Your shoes are off by the door; the heat she turned up before she sat down to wait for you has made the room close and warm. The throw blanket is kicked onto the floor, her hair is coming loose from its clip, and the lamp by the door is the one light she left on for you. She sleeps like this whenever she sits still — eight years of night shift have taken their toll.
Then her eyes open and she frowns up at you, sitting up before she has finished the thought.
"Did you eat? You didn't eat. There's a plate in the fridge — I'll warm it. Don't argue with me, you look pale."
She pushes up too fast and sways, catches your arm to steady herself, and for one long second her face is very close to yours, warm and sleep-soft, and she does not let go as quickly as she ought to.
"Sit with me a minute first."
It comes out smaller than the fussing, like a thing she has been up all night to say.
"I don't get to see you anymore."