Xavier

I’m drawn out of my sleep by a bright light hitting against my eyelids. It's not the soft glow of the dawn or even the vibrancy of late morning. This is a searing, fierce light. One I know all too well.

My eyes snap open, and I look toward the bedroom window. Through the curtains, I can see pulsing flames raging outside of the house. Throwing the blanket off me, I rush out of bed and run toward the window. I push the curtains aside and see the fire coming toward the house. I can't see how deep it is, or where it started from.

One of the flames stretches up, licking the needles of a low-hanging pine. The branch resists, but it's only a matter of time before one of the trees catches, or the scattering of dry needles and leaves below them are fully engulfed.

"Get up!" I shout. "Wake up! Now!"

Fear grips my heart as I tear open the bedroom door and run into the darkness of the living room. The brightness of the flames has shrunken my pupils so tightly I can barely see anything in front of me. But I can't hesitate. I can't slow down. My hip rams into a sharp corner of the dining room table, and I wince at the pain as I reach forward to grab for anything that will guide me across the room. I have to get to the other bedroom. I shouldn’t have let her stay there. I should have never let her be so far away from me.

"Get up!" I scream again.

Finally, my vision starts to return, but everything around me is hazy. I realize the light that's guiding me now is from the fire itself, and that means it's grown. My hands touch the doorknob of the opposite bedroom, and I grab it. As soon as I attempt to turn it, I realize it's locked. I fight against it, trying to break the lock mechanism. I don't have time to go back into the other bedroom to find the key. I don't understand why the door is locked. It shouldn't be locked.

"Anna!" I yell, pounding on the door.

"She's not there!" a voice cuts through mine.

I turn around just in time to see a tree outside the window ignite, sending droplets of fire raining down onto the porch.

Abigail

Three years earlier...

The sound of the contents of my purse crashing to the kitchen table and scattering across the surface sends a shiver down my spine. I try as hard as I can to not let it show. Even as my favorite bottle of foundation, usually tucked safely in the bottom, cracks and runs in a narrow rivulet along the grout between two white tiles I just cleaned this morning. I don't want Trevor to know he's affecting me, but I don't know if that's going to work. Sometimes remaining calm keeps him under control, but other times it only seems to push him further. I never know how he's going to react, but I feel less overwhelmed when I manage to stay calm and collected.

Trevor starts pushing everything from my purse across the table as if making sure every item is visible and accounted for. I watch as my change purse, lip stain, breath mints, sunglasses, and a granola bar smear through the makeup on the tiles. If I think back far enough, I can remember a time when there would have been so much more in the bag. It seems meaningless, but memories like that weigh heavier on me every time Trevor flies into one of his rages, which is happening with rapidly increasing frequency.

"Are you looking for something specific?" I ask.

He turns his searing dark eyes toward me, and I know I shouldn't have asked. I'm expected to stand here silently and wait for him to address me. It's not something he's commanded outright, but it's understood.

"Don't talk to me like that," he hisses through fiercely gritted teeth. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid."

"I'm not –"

"There's something in here. I know it. I just have to find it. And if it's not, it means you got rid of it."

"Got rid of what?" I ask.

"Proof."

"Proof?"

"Yes, proof. Proof of what you've been doing when you leave the house."

"I was gone for two hours this afternoon," I say cautiously.

"Conveniently when I was at work," he mutters, a slimy note in his voice.

"It's not a matter of convenience," I explain. "Your hours at work happened to coincide with when I needed to be out."

"Needed? You needed to be out? What was so pressing that you needed to leave the house without me?"

I know he didn't remember. I had tried to hold out hope that maybe he had something planned, but it was just wishful thinking.

"I was with Lilith celebrating...a birthday," I sigh.

"Oh, okay. Then you went to a party without me. What did you do while you were there? Get drunk and add a few new men to your collection?"

I cringe slightly.

"We went to lunch and then walked around the mall," I say. "I haven't seen her in months. Besides, even if there was a party, why would it matter? You know I don't drink. Just being in the same room as a man doesn't mean I'm going to pay attention to him. You're at work with women every day. Should that bother me?"

"We're not talking about me. We're talking about you. I know you're lying to me, Abigail. I can smell it on you. I guess I got home too fast, huh? You didn't have a chance to take a shower and wash it all off you."

"There's nothing to wash off, Trevor," I insist. "I went to lunch with Lilith; then we walked around the mall to see some of the new summer clothes the stores are putting out, then she brought me home. That's it. There was nothing else."

"I don't believe you," he growls.

"I'm sorry you don't believe me," I say. "I wish there was some way I could get you to."

"It’s simple. Don’t run off, then act like this when I catch you."

"I didn't run off, and I'm not acting like anything. I haven't worked in over a year, the house was clean, I just really needed some companionship, and I wanted to see her for my birthday."

I wait for his reaction, for him to realize his mistake and feel guilty. Even for a second, maybe he'll feel some of the softness I used to see in him. But my words seem to mean nothing to him.

"You don't need any more companionship than what I give you," Trevor says angrily. "That's the point of being in a relationship."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "That's not what a relationship is supposed to be. We should enjoy spending time together, but not to the total sacrifice of anyone else. I need other people. Lilith is the only friend I have left. My brother called me this morning, but she was the only other one who even mentioned my birthday."

"You have no reason to need anybody but me," he says slowly as if trying to emphasize his message as clearly as possible. "If you wanted to do something for your birthday, it should be with me. You're not going to run off with some woman you barely know."

"You never do anything with me for my birthday. We haven't in the last two years. And you know Lilith. I used to work with her. Don't you remember her?"

"No. She must not have been very important," Trevor says. "Anyway, why should I want to go out of my way to do something for the birthday of a woman who's cheating on me?"

"I'm not cheating on you, Trevor," I insist. "How would I? I don't have a phone of my own anymore because you say I don't need it."

"And yet you somehow miraculously came up with plans with this Lilith woman," he says.

I know that tone in his voice. That's the tone that says Trevor thinks he's come up with a way to catch me in a lie. There's always that slick, smug note in each word like he’s so much smarter than me. He wants me to confess that I have a hidden cell phone paid for by the mysterious, illicit boyfriend he's crafted in his mind.

"I ran into her at the grocery store," I tell him. "Like I said, I haven't seen her in months. Not since you took me off the phone plan. But she remembered my birthday and asked if I wanted to go to lunch. So, I said yes, and we made plans for me to meet her at La Casita. I had vegetable fajitas, we shared fried ice cream, then we went to the mall to look at the new clothes. She wanted to stay out longer, but I told her I needed to get home so I could be here when you got home."

"And she refused to bring you?" he snorts.

Somehow, he is always able to turn anything into a negative situation. No matter what I say, he's able to twist it into a confession or something to support his claims, no matter how outlandish. It often seems the further from reality Trevor flings his theories and rants, the more complicated and twisted his interpretation of anything I say or do becomes. I can hardly say a word without him snapping back.

"She didn't refuse," I say.

For what feels like the millionth time in our relationship, I try to calm Trevor down and reassure him. I used to do this without question. I was more worried about him being upset than I was standing up for myself. It always felt like there were countless reasons for me to do it. Those reasons are getting fewer and fewer the longer time goes on.

"Then why weren't you back here?"

"It takes time to get back here from the mall," I say. "We took less than an hour to eat, and less than an hour at the mall. The rest of the time was driving."

"She's a bad influence on you, Gail. I don't want you seeing her again."

I close my eyes briefly, letting out a breath and resisting the urge to shake off the feeling that name causes to creep down my skin. Trevor knows I hate when he calls me that, and yet he still does it. He says it sounds more like an adult – that Abigail sounds like a little girl’s name. When I was younger and first getting lost in his spell, I found it flattering. He didn't want me to sound like a child, because he was trying to convince me I was grown and old enough to take control of my life and make my own decisions. I believed him then, which is how I let him lure me away. Now, though, it sounds like another way he exerts control over me. Every time he calls me Gail, it’s another chip he takes out of my identity, and I feel even further from myself. When he calls me Gail, that’s his way of telling me that I belong to him, not in the protective and loving way I once imagined, but as a possession.

"Fine," I mutter.

I don't want to give in. I don't want to give up my last connection to the outside world other than my brother, but for now, I just want this confrontation to be over. I'm willing to give him the satisfaction of tonight if he'll just let me breathe for a little while. It will be better tomorrow. It always is.

Trevor glares at me a few more seconds before storming out of the room and toward the bedroom. I let out a breath. Thinking about my brother only makes me feel worse. It's been so long since I've seen or spoken to Evan, I don’t feel connected to him at all these days. He's all I have, and yet I don't even feel like I really have him. Walking over to the cabinet under the kitchen sink to get paper towels and a spray bottle of cleaner to wash away the spill on the table, I feel even more isolated than before. This isn't what my life was supposed to be like. I shouldn’t feel this way. At twenty-two, I should see the world as nothing but opportunities, and be enjoying every moment of my young adulthood. Instead, every day drags by just like the one before. There's nothing to look forward to. No sense of a future ahead of me. It's a stagnant existence – one that feels like it's tightening its grip around me further by the minute.

I remember before things were this way. I'm not so far separated from it that I can't look back and recall Trevor's eyes before they were so angry. I can almost hear his voice, sweet as honey before it was laced with such disdain. There was a time when he was everything I ever hoped for in a man. I never could have imagined a day when him being the center of my life would be a default setting rather than out of love and devotion.

When the table is finally clean again, I tuck my purse away under the table beside the back door where I always keep it and walk back into the kitchen to start dinner. I don't know if I'll see Trevor awake again tonight. The next few hours while the pot roast cooks will tell. He will either emerge from the room to sit at the table and have a silent, tense meal with me, or I'll wrap up a plate for him, set it on his specified shelf in the refrigerator, and slip into bed as quietly as I can in hopes of not waking him. Nights like this make me wish even more for the way things were at the beginning. Like when we bought our first piece of furniture for the first apartment we lived in together – a futon. I can still remember how excited I was. It was just a reject from a college dorm room too small to accommodate two, but to me, it was a sign of freedom. Trevor and I pushed it into the center of our dark, cramped basement apartment, and I felt like I had taken a step into adulthood, even though I was barely old enough to know what that meant. Even then, I had visions of a future that was my own. I'd go to school and have a career. I'd come home to Trevor at night, and we'd unwind and relax together. Eventually, we'd get married and have a family.

It was all so clear in my mind, but four years later we are even farther from that dream than when all we had was a dank, small basement apartment and a little futon. I don't know if he'll ever change. Part of me holds out a little flicker of hope that someday I'll wake up and he'll be the man I fell in love with again. That way, the dreams I’ve had for going back to finish my degree won’t feel as naive and absurd as I’ve come to see them. The rest of me has become increasingly more confident that what I’m feeling is nothing but a desperate cling to what I thought was my salvation. I don't want to let go of it. That would be admitting to all the years I've wasted.

The next day…

Even though I didn't see Trevor last night for dinner, he seems strangely calm this morning. By the time he comes out of the bedroom, a smile on his face, I’m almost finished cooking breakfast. He leans down to kiss my cheek and snatches a piece of bacon from the plate beside me on the counter. It’s almost playful, but the slight glimpse of the man I knew before the darkness took over is more unsettling than if he had come into the room as angry as last night.

"What are you up to today?" he asks as we sit down at the table across from each other to eat.

"I thought I'd go to the grocery store," I said. "There are a few good sales today."

I look at him for a few seconds, waiting for the smile to fade from his face and be replaced by a look of angry suspicion. Instead, he smiles and eats a piece of bacon before nodding.

"Sounds good. I look forward to seeing what you pick up for dinner."

As I drive toward the grocery store, those words endlessly repeat through my mind. The tiny house Trevor rented for us had initially seemed like a step up from the apartment, but it’s so far from everything, it quickly felt like another form of isolation. It takes almost half an hour to get to any store, and I've never met our nearest neighbors, whose house isn't even visible from ours. I'm wondering if he meant something more by that statement as I park and walk through the sliding glass doors into the grocery store. Did I forget something? Is today a special event of some kind that I should remember, and be commemorating with dinner? Did Trevor ask for something specific, and he's just waiting to see if I remember and prepare it for him correctly?

I stop at a display of Trevor's favorite chips and debate whether he would be appreciative that I picked up a snack for him, or if he would be angry and accuse me of being lazy. It's still early in the day, so most of the people roaming up and down the aisles are mothers with very young children. This makes it even stranger when I turn from the display and see Greg, one of Trevor’s poker buddies, just ahead of me in the produce section, walking around a display of potatoes like he's never seen them before.

I'm accustomed to only seeing Greg and the rest of the guys when they're crowded around a card table in the living room surrounded by a cloud of smoke, so it takes me a few seconds to actually recognize him. He seems to instantly know who I am, though. His eyes widen slightly, and he gives me a smile that seems slightly less than friendly. I can't quite put my finger on why. Letting the baking potato slip from his fingers back onto a stack that seems unstable enough to send the entire display spilling onto the floor, Greg walks over to me.

"Hey, Abigail," he says. "Funny seeing you here."

"I'm just grocery shopping," I say. "This is the closest store to our place."

I can feel my eyes narrow at him. It's true that this is the closest grocery store to my house, but from what I know about Greg and where he works and lives, I know it's decidedly out of his way. I can't think of a reason he'd stop by here first thing in the morning to grab some potatoes.

"Grocery shopping," Greg repeats, nodding. "That's a good thing to do in the morning."

The interaction is getting stranger by the moment, and I look around, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

"Well, I better be going. I should get home and get some cleaning done before I get supper started."

It's hours before I need to start cooking, but it's the first thing to pop into my mind that might help me get away from Greg. I don't wait for him to respond before making a beeline across the produce section to grab the few items I need there.

"Tell Trevor I say hi," he calls after me, "and that I'm looking forward to our game on Friday."

I nod and wave over my shoulder at him, relieved when I see a mother with four small children in tow come into the section.

When I arrive back at the house almost an hour later, I'm startled to see Trevor's car still in the driveway. He should be at work by now. Grabbing as many of the bags as I can, I start toward the back door of the house. This door leads directly into the kitchen, making it easier when unloading groceries. As soon as I step inside, I see Trevor leaned against the counter. He's sipping an amber-colored liquid from a glass in his hand, and I'm certain it's not sweet tea.

"This is a surprise," I say. "I thought you'd still be at work."

"That's what I wanted you to think," he says.

Some of the smile from this morning is still on his face, but like when I saw Greg, there's a hint of something beneath it that puts me on edge.

"What do you mean?"

I start toward the door again, and Trevor downs the rest of the liquid in his glass and starts to follow me.

"Are there more groceries in the car?" he asks.

I glance over my shoulder at him.

"Yes," I say.

He peers in through the open door at the bags lined along the back seat.

"What did you get?" he asks.

"I replenished the breakfast things. Stuff for dinner for the next week. Some snacks."

"Did you get any produce?"

I'd been walking back toward the open door, but this makes me stop in my tracks. I turn toward him for a second.

"A few things," I say.

"Good," Trevor says as he walks past me into the house.

There's a knotting sensation in my stomach as I follow him. We stand at the counter, him watching me as I unload the groceries from the bags and start to put them away. I can feel his eyes following every movement I make, only increasing the uneasy feeling in my stomach.

"You sure didn't spend as much time in the grocery store as you did with that woman yesterday," he says.

I stop in front of the open cabinet, leaving the box of cereal I was putting up hovering just beneath the shelf.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

I hope my voice doesn’t crack as much as I think it is.

"In the grocery store," he says. "You didn't spend as much time in there as you did when you went out with that woman yesterday."

"How do you know how long I was at the grocery store?" I ask.

"Greg texted me and told me he saw you. Told me how long you were there."

I turn and shake my head at him.

"No," I say. "That's not what happened at all. He didn't see me when I got there, and I was there after I talked to him. He wouldn't know how long I was actually at the store."

I feel like I'm being set up. This isn't a casual observation. It's not just a pleasant conversation. Trevor is trying to make me say something specific and reveal some hidden truth about the time I spend away from the house. I look back at him silently until he finally lets out a barking laugh.

"Alright," he says. "I'm just playing with you. He didn't tell me you were there. That's not how I knew how long you were shopping."

"Then how? If he didn't tell you, how did you even know he was at the store?

"I was there," Trevor says, pushing away from the counter and stepping toward me.

"What do you mean you were there?" I ask.

"I was there," he repeats.

"At the grocery store?"

Trevor nods.

"I didn't actually go to work today. I took the day off."

"Why?"

Some of his smile fades.

"Because I wanted to. No matter what excuses you gave me yesterday, I don’t believe you. I wanted to make sure you were doing what you said you were, and that meant I had to see it for myself."

"So… you followed me?" I ask.

I don't know why I feel so incredulous. I would put little past Trevor at this point, especially when it comes to proving himself right.

"Yes, I followed you," he says. "I waited around the corner for you to leave. I’ve always told you that you don't pay enough attention while driving. This just proves it. I was right there behind you, and you didn't even notice. I watched you go into the store, made sure you met up with Greg, and then watched you come out. I left while you were putting the bags in your car."

"That's why he was there," I say.

"You're quick," he says sarcastically. "I couldn't risk being embarrassed anymore, Gail. You understand that, don’t you?"

"I still don't know why you think you should be embarrassed at all," I say. Any worry or fear I've felt is gone now. Only anger remains. "I do nothing but take care of you. I'm at this house all day making sure it's clean, that you have food waiting for you. And no matter what, I'm still never good enough for you. I'm not even your –"

I stop myself before I let the word come out of my mouth. Intense heat creeps up the back of my neck and burns on my cheeks.

"My what?" he asks, then lets out a mirthless, bitter laugh. "My wife? Is that what you were thinking? You're not even my wife, but you still do all those things for me? Maybe if you were better at it, and not constantly making me check up on you, or follow after you to keep you in line, I'd be more willing to even think about marrying you. But it's going to take a lot more than doing chores and serving mediocre food to make you worthy of being my wife."

Something inside me snaps. It feels like it has been coiled deep inside me for so long, I barely even realized it was there until I feel it unraveling explosively within me. I've never felt anger like this. It brings me back to countless childhood nights spent cowering and trying to hide the tears streaming down my cheeks. I refuse to cry this time.

"You know what, Trevor? You're right. I'm not cut out to be your wife. I never have been. There's no point in trying to convince either one of us that it will work out one day. Not anymore."

"What do you mean by that?" Trevor asks, taking another forceful step toward me.

I stay right where I am.

"It means I'm done," I say. "This isn't the life I want. It's not the life I ever wanted."

His dark eyes are almost obsidian now.

"It seems like you wanted it just fine for the last four years."

"I want the man I thought you were when we met. He never would have been so suspicious of me. He never would have followed me or planted one of his friends somewhere to make sure I was behaving. He never would have stopped me from working or taken my phone. You aren't that man anymore. There's no reason for me to stay."

I start toward the bedroom to start packing, but Trevor steps in my path and blocks me from going any further.

"Where do you think you're going? I didn't tell you this conversation is over."

"I don't need you to tell me that. I'm an adult, Trevor. I'm not your child, and I'm not your property. I'm not going to let you treat me like a prisoner anymore."

I try to get around him, but he grabs me by my arm.

"A prisoner?" he growls. His eyes flash now, and fury rises up beneath his tanned skin to make them seem sunken in. He looks like a feral animal. "Is that how you think I treat you?"

"Let go of me, Trevor."

"No," he says. "You know what? I think you're exactly right. I shouldn't have been giving you so much freedom."

He starts trying to drag me toward the narrow yellow door leading down into the basement. Digging my heels down into the floor, I try to resist.

"What are you doing?" I demand.

"Exactly what you said. I'm making you my prisoner. That way you can't possibly resist my control anymore."

I reach out and grab for the table, then the doorknob to the pantry. I'm doing everything I can to not let him get me to the door. The fear I thought I had pushed out of my mind has returned as a sharp spike of terror. The fury in Trevor's voice is beyond anything I've heard before, and I don't want to think about what could happen to me if he gets me down into the basement. One of my nails cracks and starts to pull away from my finger as I continue to grasp at anything I can. The door to the basement opens, and the creaking of the old hinges sends a shiver along my skin. Trevor yanks me forward, and I stumble. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the hazy, dusty light coming from the bare bulb in the center of the stairway leading down, and the other positioned in the center of the small room.

"Trevor! Stop! Let me go."

"No," he hisses. "I've done everything for you, Gail. If it weren’t for me, you'd still be in that dark hole you were trying to crawl out of with your parents and your brother. You are so fucking ungrateful. You're always trying to get things your way. You never show me the respect I deserve. I'm not going to let that happen anymore. You're going to stay right here where I can keep a close eye on you."

He starts down the stairs, and I feel my body hit the top step, the sharp edge of the unfinished wood scraping across my skin. I can't let him do this. I can't let him pull me down into that dank, dirty space and leave me there. I suddenly feel as though everything I've experienced has built up to this very moment, and I know I have to act. A few more seconds could take away any possibility I have of surviving this. Trevor goes down two more steps, and rather than trying to control my movement, I let my body slide off the steps, so I hit the backs of his legs. Just as I hoped he would, he loses his balance just enough to have to release his grip on me and hold the banister beside him. The instant I feel the pressure of his hand loosen on my arm, I scramble the rest of the way up the steps and slam the basement door behind me. The doorknob was installed so that the thumb turn of the lock is inside the kitchen, and I quickly turn it. I can hear Trevor screaming obscenities from the inside of the basement, and I know it will only take a few well-directed kicks to take the door down, but it bought me the few seconds I need.

I run into the living room and reach under the couch. I feel around for a few seconds, finally grabbing onto the handle I'm seeking. The sound of wood beginning to splinter fuels me to go faster, and I finally yank the bags out from where I had hidden them beneath the piece of furniture. I grab my purse from where it sits on the kitchen table and run out of the house. My hands are shaking so hard I almost can't start the car, but I keep trying until the engine finally roars to life. My tires squeal angrily against the gravel of our driveway as I slam on the gas and shoot backward out onto the narrow road in front of our house. I'm driving almost blindly, I push the car to its greatest speed and pray I won't meet any wildlife or another car as I make my way down the curvy road. Every few seconds, I glance into the rearview mirror to make sure Trevor isn't following me yet. Knowing he was right behind me when I was driving to a grocery store this morning is sickening, and I can't escape the sensation of his eyes on my back. Even though I can’t see him in the rearview mirror, I can’t shake the horrible feeling that he's somehow right there and I just can't see him.

I don't know where I'm going or what I’m doing until I see the illuminated sign of a hotel in front of me. I didn't realize I had driven so far, but that welcoming sign sends a rush of relief through me. Even though I can see the fluorescent Vacancy sign next to the door to the lobby, I skid around to the back of the building and park. I didn't notice Trevor behind me, but I don't want him to see my car parked in front of the hotel when he drives by. If he is following me. I know he probably is. He has to be. He wouldn't go through all of that, and then just let me go that easily.

After shutting off the engine, I look at the bags I have sitting on the passenger seat. I don't even remember what's inside the two small duffel bags I had shoved under the couch. They've been there for many months, just waiting for when I might need them. Looking back on the compulsion I felt to hide them in the first place, I now know that should have been a red flag. As soon as stuffing necessities into bags and shoving them under furniture became a valid strategical step, I should have realized it was time for me to leave. The idea for packing the bags came out of a show I caught in the middle of the afternoon a while back. Sitting on the edge of the couch, I watched the survival expert describe how to get through emergency situations by preparing for them ahead of time. Creating a bug out bag was his way of preparing for severe weather. It was my way of giving myself an escape. The expert said the bags should be kept somewhere easily accessible. Instead, I chose to make mine inaccessible – at least to Trevor. I tucked them away where he would never find them. Looking under the furniture was a step too close to cleaning, so I knew there was no chance of him discovering the collection of items that are now all I have left of my former life.

I can't go back to that life. I can't live another freaking day in a situation I had been so desperate to escape. Scooping up the bags, I dart out of the car and across the empty parking lot. Ahead of me, I see a swimming pool well past its prime. There's a tinted door leading out onto the empty pool deck, but also a fence wrapped around the entire area, preventing me from getting any closer. I run around the corner of the building, open the front door, and slip into the lobby. The woman sitting behind the registration desk looks up, and I rush across the cracked cream and brown tile floor toward her. I've never been inside this hotel before. It always seemed rundown and semi-abandoned. Right now, however, I'm extremely grateful for the walls around me, and the tint of the front doors that means even if Trevor does drive past the hotel, he won’t be able to see inside.

"Hello," the woman behind the desk says.

"Hi," I say. My voice comes out breathless and dry, and I know she sees my eyes flickering back and forth between her and the road outside. "I need a room, please."

"Just you?" she asks.

"Yes," I say.

She steps up to the computer, turning just enough that I can see the nametag pinned to her chest. Brigitte.

"How many nights will you be staying with us?" she asks.

That question makes me realize just how little I thought this whole thing through.

"Three nights," I say.

I know I can't pay for it. The little bit of money Trevor gives me was basically depleted by grocery shopping this morning, and I don't even have enough left to pay for one night. But I'll find a way to deal with that when I must. This will give me some time to figure things out, and right now, that's all I need.

Brigitte hands me a keycard with an advertisement on its back for a steakhouse that closed a few months ago. She nods toward the single elevator at the back of the lobby, and I thank her before picking up my bags again and dragging them toward the dinged silver doors. As soon as I step inside, I feel safe. The space is small enough that I can see everything around me, and the enclosure of the walls and doors gives me the sense that nothing can approach without me knowing. This lasts only a few seconds before the elevator stops and opens on my floor. The hallway is eerily quiet, and I remember that I only saw four other cars sitting in the parking lot. I can only assume one of them belongs to Brigitte and one more to another employee since I can't imagine only one person working at a time. This means there are likely only two other occupied rooms in the hotel. As I quickly head down the hallway and slip into my assigned room, I don't know if the solitude is comforting or unnerving. As I engage the chain lock behind me, I wonder why Brigitte chose this room for me. If the rest of the hotel is largely empty, I would think she would have assigned me a room close to the lobby, yet I'm sitting here on the third floor of a three-floor hotel, wondering if she might have put the other guests on the first and second floor to spread us out.

I stand in the middle of the room and realize I don't know what to do next. My day isn't mapped out for me anymore. There's no lasagna to make for dinner, or laundry to finish fast enough to where it seems that dirty clothes never exist in the house. I don't have to vacuum or strip the bed. I don't even have to make sure I always have the cordless phone with me, just in case Trevor calls to check on where I am and what I'm doing. That connection is gone.

The realization seems to take all the remaining energy that I had out of me, and I sit down on the end of the bed, suddenly exhausted. Around me, the room is cool and silent. I haven't turned on the lamp, so the only light flickering in comes through a slight gap in the curtains on the window. Which is perfect, because right now, all I want to do is sleep.