David stood by the window, watching the rain run down the glass in long, crooked lines. He had not taken off his coat since dinner.
“The house is very quiet tonight,” I said.
“It is too quiet,” he said, turning around to face me in the shadows. “The walls in this place feel like they are closing in on me.”
He adjusted his silver wristwatch again, the metal band clicking against his cuff in the silence.
“I just need a few hours of quiet, Claire, because this is too much for me,” he said.
I watched him walk toward the bedroom door, his steps light and hurried.
“Are you coming back tonight?” I asked.
He did not answer.
The draft from the hallway reached my face a second later, cold and smelling of the wet night outside.
In the driveway, the low rumble of the car engine started, vibrating through the old floorboards of the bedroom.
I lay perfectly still in the center of the mattress, my fingers clutching my left collarbone.
Through the dark glass of the window, the bright headlight beams swept across the white plaster of the bedroom ceiling, turning the shadows into a grid of moving lines before David drove away into the dark rain.
The rain tapped against the metal window frame. I lay still, my left hand pressed against my collarbone, waiting for the ache in my ribs to subside.
Beside me, Sophie stirred. Her small hand still held the white plastic hospital bracelet on my wrist, her thumb tucked under her chin.
I needed to reach the bathroom. The eighty-five-dollar medical cane David brought home yesterday sat out of reach, leaned against the dresser across the room.
I slid my legs over the edge of the mattress, my teeth clenched against the sudden burn in my side. The floor was cold beneath my palms.
I lowered myself onto the rug, moving inch by inch on my hands and knees. The hallway floorboards felt rough against my palms.
Sophie did not wake. Her soft, even breathing was the only sound in the dark house.
