(Rebecca's POV)
5:40. The alarm goes off and I'm already halfway out of bed before my body catches up to my life.
My feet hit the floor. My hands reach for the closet — the shirt.
The shirt I press every morning at 5:45 so the collar is flat by the time he comes downstairs at 6:10.
My fingers close on air.
No closet. No shirt. No iron heating on the board I set up in the dark because the sound of the iron wakes Jack if I do it in the hallway.
I'm standing in Connie's guest room. The bed is narrow. The sheets are cold where I left them. The closet is three feet wide and holds two bags I packed from a house I don't live in anymore.
My hands are still reaching.
I sit on the edge of the bed and put them in my lap.
The room is gray. Not morning gray — the gray before morning decides to
