The Upper Hand

Hazel

My pen dangles between my fingers, the cap nudged against my teeth.

I lay flat on the bed, stretching my arms, like I’m posing for a crime scene.

The ceiling above me has exactly twenty-one panels — no, wait, twenty-two.

...Wasn’t it twenty-three last night?

I squint up and count again.

"One... two... three..."

I sigh. "They always change. Shifty bastards."

The pen cap clacks against my teet