She didn't pack dramatically.
No pulling things from shelves with shaking hands. No slamming drawers. Just the quiet methodical movement of a woman who had packed bags under pressure before and knew that efficiency was its own form of dignity.
Nora's things first. Always Nora's things first.
The weekend bag she kept half packed anyway — a habit from the early years when she'd learned that being ready meant being in control. Two changes of clothes. The fox book. The bunny, obviously. Nora's particular brand of strawberry toothpaste that was the only kind she'd tolerate without negotiation.
Then her own bag. Smaller. Less considered.
She called her sister while she zipped it.
"Can we come this weekend?"
A pause the brief kind that meant her sister was recalibrating from whatever she'
