Tapping reserves she didn’t know she possessed, she hefted Rebecca’s sodden mattress down the stairs and onto the porch. Then she gathered the soiled throw rugs from around the child’s bed and hung them over the porch railing. She doused them with steaming water boiled in the same pots Jonas used for her bath and left them with the mattress to dry. The cherry pitter snugged into the kitchen drawer which now closed without a hitch. Discarded travel clothes and bags were returned to their proper rooms where they lined the walls with military precision. Finally, she mopped the floors and opened almost every window in the house. She didn’t weep. She didn’t think. She just cleaned.

Only after she spread her arms wide and leaned into the kitchen counter did she realize she’d assumed Jonas’s position from earlier that night—yesterday, really. If she closed her eyes, could she summon the warmth of his body, as if he still stood here and she just slipped beneath his arms to nestle into the Tessa-sized space against his chest?

Gazing at the dawn, all she felt was loneliness. The sky shifted from charcoal to heathered gray. A bar of soap twirled in her fingers, giving off the faintest scent of oatmeal. She held it to her nose. The smell was subtle but undeniably him. She replaced the soap by the sink.

With every step, her feet rooted into the floor, and she had to rip them free. No matter what her body wanted, her brain knew better. She had no reason to stay. Nothing remained to be cleaned.

In the doorway to Jonas’s room, she paused, allowing her eyes to adjust. He left his bed in the middle of the night, and the shade was still drawn. She gazed over rumpled linens to the Bible on the nightstand. The cover was cracked at the binding, and the gilt pages were faded and warped. She entered the room, running a hand along the top of the dresser where her backpack now lay, lingering until she imprinted every object onto her heart. She melded the cool solidity of the porcelain bowl into her skin…memorized the simple floral pattern punched into the tin candleholder…captured the cottony, woody scent of the air deep in her lungs.

Only then did she finish the work she’d begun. She raised the shade and opened wide the window. Stiff shoulders cracking, she made his bed, tucking quilt beneath mattress and smoothing the wrinkles. She fluffed the downy pillows but didn’t let herself sink into them. If she did, she would never have the strength to leave. Instead, she sat on the straight-backed chair and picked up her backpack.