Finally, Wren was asleep. A duly needed break from all the worries of the day. Grace dragged the blanket up over Wren’s body and moved some hair away from her face. The poor girl. Grace had never thought of herself as old enough to use phrases like that, but here she was. Twenty-five years old and thinking “the poor girl” about her best friend like she was someone’s aunt.
She sat on the edge of the bed as quietly as she could so she wouldn’t mattress too much, and checked her phone. William had texted.
**How’s she?**
Grace typed back, **Asleep. Finally.**
**And you?**
How was she? That was a deceptively simple question. She was tired and wired. She and William texted back and forth for a bit more. All that small conversational maintenance that kept relationships running. W
