The thing about Richie was that he was a really comfortable pillow. When he'd been a kid he was all awkward joints and knobby knees, kind of like a muppet, but now that he'd grown into the Maine lumberjack build - yeah, definitely comfy. Beverly just kind of flopped on him - her breathing synced with his too, in and out, the rise and fall of his chest something that was comforting.
"Not really, I just - it was a presence. It sat there. I knew something was wrong but I didn't know how to fix it," she sighed, her voice a cotton lullaby. She felt calm, despite the dark conversational topic. "Does it make you sick?"
She hoped not. If it did, then she'd really worry that it was consuming him - like, stealing his life force or something. That was horrible to think about.