Charlie murmured and then looked vacant. He rustled in the bed, suddenly no longer there. She could feel the pull of his phone, his clothes, his laptop, his life in the small bag on the table by the TV. She felt a mixed revulsion and sadness, seeing for a moment what this might have been to him, how that might differ so much from what it was to her. That would make it indescribably sordid. She tentatively stroked his hair, realizing that she wouldn’t see him again, in fact could never see him again, because seeing him again would make what happened real, something that counted, and would make the gulf in their realities matter too. She would put the experience in a black box. She traced a finger over his tattoo. “Nobody gets hurt,” she said again.