Jayson’s unexpected image vanquishes the dreadful chill, reviving warmth she felt when he arrived last night. She’d dozed off in his arms as they talked past midnight, and so had he, given the jeans and T-shirt he is still wearing. Beside the bed, his socks and sweater lay crumpled on the floor, discarded before they slept.
Jayson grouses, knocks the dreamcatcher from his forehead to the pillow and raises on his elbow, wiping his face. “Hey, I thought you touched me just now.”
“No, it was the dreamcatcher,” Twyla says, strolling toward the built-in wardrobe sectioned off behind another sliding door, a closet Charlie constructed before she graduated from college.
“No, a hand brushed my face.”
“It was the feathers.”
“Why are you over there? Come back to bed,” he grumbles behind the part
