She woke up late.
Sunday arrived through the floor-to-ceiling windows with the full insistence of a July afternoon that had been going on without her for several hours and had no apology for it. The room was warm. She had slept longer than she'd intended, which meant the ankle and the accumulated weight of the last two days had finally collected their debt.
She reached for her phone from the nightstand—she'd charged it overnight, had taken her medication before bed, had slept with the specific heaviness of someone whose body had been through enough and had finally been given the chance to process it. She unlocked the screen and sat up against the headboard and started going through what she'd missed.
The ten missed calls from Ricky had resolved themselves into a text that had arrived at eleven-thirty Saturday night:
