I dozed and woke suddenly, dozed and woke suddenly, until the familiar font said it was 03:12 and I was tapping out his passcode as if in a trance. Bedroom door: I closed it slowly to avoid creaking and did not let it click. Hunched forward on the couch, elbows on knees, the glow of it around me, I noted that it had opened to the home screen, so I should make sure to return to the home screen before going back to bed. At first there was too much information to take anything in; I felt frantic, like I had just entered a Walmart with the whimsical idea that I might get some socks, maybe a magazine, maybe a new kind of frozen burrito, and instead was confronted by the overwhelming vagueness of my desires. I looked to my bedroom door and trusted I would hear the bed creak if he left it. I was so nervous that, though I do not believe there is such a thing as bad people, with the exception of the water-polo player I once showered with in college and a handful of celebrities, I felt a strain, the sense that I must be a bad person, to be willing to feel so awful in order to commit the pretty minor offense I was committing. I suppose my definition of “bad person” might be more self-centered than others’, though, really, worrying about being a bad person is entirely self-centered regardless. Good people do not think in such categorical terms.