Justine had appropriated Susan's room. Tia moved Susan's belongings into Manuel's.

"Who told you to put my things in his room?" Susan demanded, her temper flaring.

Tia looked aggrieved. Before she could explain, Manuel emerged from the room. "I asked her to."

"So you think I'm going to sleep in your room? I'd rather go to a hotel!" Susan exclaimed.

"I'll sleep on the sofa," Manuel interrupted.

Susan was stunned. Then he added, "I've asked Tia to clear the room for you. My things only take up one cupboard; just don't open the innermost one, and you won't see them."

Susan's anger subsided, replaced by a pang of regret. However, she quickly shifted blame to Manuel, thinking that had he explained sooner, she wouldn't have reacted so angrily.

"It's late. Good night," Manuel said, wheeling his chair toward the sofa.

Tia quickly followed. "Mr. Johnson, won't you be uncomfortable on the couch? Let me sleep there. I can sleep anywhere, and your sofa is far more comfortable than my bed back home."

"No, I'll sleep here," Manuel insisted. "Please help me get a quilt."

"But Mr. Johnson..."

"Just do it."

Tia knew Manuel was principled and wouldn't meekly accept everything, but Susan was an exception. Tia couldn't understand why Susan disliked Manuel; any woman would fall for a man as perfect as Mr. Johnson.

Susan stared at them for a moment before entering Manuel's room, telling herself it was Justine's fault she was there.

After bathing, Susan lay in bed. Turning over, she detected the faint, familiar yet irritating scent of Manuel on the freshly laundered sheets. It was a stark reminder of their previous encounter in this very bed.

Sleep proved elusive. Rising abruptly, Susan opened the door. A lamp lit the living room, revealing Manuel asleep on the sofa.

Glancing at him, she abruptly knocked on Tia's door. Tia, roused from sleep, emerged groggily. "Ms. Phillips, do you want to sleep with me?"

"Sleep? You just know sleep!" Susan snapped.

Tia was bewildered.

"Change my sheets," Susan ordered.

"I already did," Tia protested, aggrieved at being awakened for such a trivial reason.

"Why does the bed still smell like Manuel? I can't sleep."

"That's impossible," Tia retorted. "I smelled them after changing them—it's just laundry detergent."

"You must have a poor sense of smell!"

"You're the one with the problem," Tia muttered defiantly.

"How dare you talk back to me!" Susan fumed, threatening to dismiss her.

"You're being unreasonable!" Tia exploded, furious at being woken for no good reason.

"Tia, you..."

"You miss Mr. Johnson, so you imagine his scent. It's psychological! I changed the sheets, and you still accuse me!"

Susan was momentarily speechless.

"Anyway, the sheets are changed. If you have nothing else, I'm going to bed," Tia said.

Susan, unable to vent her frustration on Tia, returned to bed. This time, she detected a faint mixture of detergent and Manuel's scent. She resolved to buy new sheets tomorrow, erasing any trace of him.

Unable to sleep, she slipped out of bed. The lamp revealed Manuel on the sofa. Ignoring him, she went to the kitchen for water. Unconsciously, she found herself near the sofa.

She noted the discomfort of his sleeping position—the sofa was too small, his weight creating an indentation. He'd surely wake with a sore back.

The realization of her concern caused her to abruptly turn and leave. She shouldn't care, shouldn't feel guilty, she thought.

Manuel opened his eyes, watching her go, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. His mother, though clever, had overlooked one crucial thing: Susan didn't love him. Without love, there would be no compassion.

…

The next day, nausea woke Susan. After a restless night, she felt ill, rushing to the bathroom to vomit.

Feeling wretched, she slumped to the floor, venting her misery about the baby to distract herself from the pain.

Eventually, hunger spurred her to clean herself and leave the bedroom.