(Rebecca's POV)
White ceiling. The crack running left to right, thin as a hair.
Connie's guest room. I've stared at that crack three nights running and it looks the same every time.
My hand is heavy. I look down. An IV — taped to the back of my knuckles, needle buried between my fingers, the tube running up to a bag on the stand beside the bed. Half-empty. Saline, warm, feeding steadily up my arm in a slow thread. I can feel it moving. Actual heat, spreading through tissue that was making other plans a few hours ago.
I breathe. My lungs ache — deep and bruised, like the cold found the tissue and left fingerprints.
Lavender. Connie's detergent. The brand she's had since law school. It means safe. It means someone is handling things.
I turn my head.
Eric is in the chair beside the bed
