I woke up wrong.
Not wrong like a leopard is eating my face or wrong like the graft behind my sternum has decided to play dubstep at four in the morning. Wrong like the air had weight. Like someone had poured concrete into the atmosphere overnight and forgot to tell the rest of the island. My alarm read five-twelve, eighteen minutes before it was supposed to go off, and Naomi's head rested on my chest with her shell necklace pressing a cold circle into the skin above my fourth rib. Her breathing came slow and deep. Her fingers had curled into a loose fist against my stomach in her sleep, bunching the fabric of my shirt like a kid holding a blanket.
Normal. All of that was normal. We had been sleeping like this for weeks.
The wrongness lived somewhere else.
