BELLA’S POV
I woke up knowing it was Sunday.
Not from any sound the house made, not from light or clock or any of the ordinary signals that told you the day. I woke up knowing it was Sunday the way you woke up knowing the weather before you
looked at the sky — a quality in the air, something already settled about what kind of day this was going to be before it had done anything yet.
Sunday: the last day of thirty-six hours.
My mother would be back Sunday evening. She had said this specifically, precisely, in the warm fait-accompli way she said things she had decided — Sunday evening, Petra knows about the meals.
The word evening was a window with dimensions. It told you that Sunday had a usable portion before it closed. It told you that the house’s current configuration had a remain
