I don’t get why. She is beautifully easy to be with, even for me. Or maybe the easiness is just us. We’re trauma-bonded. Connected. She must feel it, too—I wouldn’t be in her bed otherwise. She falls asleep, her rhythmic breathing lulling me.

I didn’t sleep much last night either, plagued by Marina-nightmares. They were just a manifestation of my anxiety over her healing, but those dreams rattled me. In the worst one, pieces of her were scattered all over the road, and I tried desperately to put her back together again. A finger here. A freckle there. I remember finding her smile and thinking, how can she still smile? I gathered all the pieces but couldn’t hold them together.

Relax, Grady. A deep breath centers me as I lean against her headboard.

The world will slow down if you let it. If you stop setting the pace. Aunt Elena’s words circle with Marina’s, loosening my tension.

She’s here. She’s sleeping. She’s okay. I run my hand over her forehead and through her hair. The world gets quiet.

A dreamless sleep swallows me up.

Knocking wakes me. Soft, at first. Then, harder.

Marina sleeps soundly, nestled to me, her arms locked around my midsection like I’m a body pillow.

I’m strangely okay with that.

The knocking persists. It must be Mom with the migraine medications. Gently, I shift out from under her, untangling us, though I don’t want to. She doesn’t wake.

I swing the front door open mid-loud pounding.

Cora Sullivan. In full business-formal. Carrying an absurdly large gift basket wrapped in cellophane.

Her practiced smile drops at the sight of me. She practically seethes. “Why are you here? Where’s Marnie?”

“In bed. Asleep,” I whisper. “I’d like to keep it that way. She’s had a rough night.”

She scoffs, pushing the basket into my arms and bulldozing her way inside. “You’ve been here all night?”

“No.”

“You shouldn’t be here at all,” she barks, not even trying to be quiet.

“Someone had to be,” I say.

“And she called you?”

“No. My involvement is purely coincidental. Not that it matters. She needed help, and I offered. She’s in a lot of pain, she barely slept, and she’s suffering from a migraine because of the anesthesia. So, please, keep your voice down.”

Her eyes narrow, but her furrowed brow softens somewhat. “Well, I’m here now. You can go.”

“Not a chance.”

She gawks—she’s not used to being told no, but I’m happy to do it, for Marina’s sake.