saw my modest house, old mailbox, and carefully written grocery lists and assumed they understood everything about me.
They never asked what career I had retired from.
I answered the call.
There was no greeting and no apology.
Only Marcus’s flat, controlled voice.
Come pick up your garbage.
The kitchen vanished for a moment. I braced one hand against the counter and waited until my voice became useful.
Marcus, I said. Where is Chloe.
Downtown bus terminal, he said.
He sounded bored.
That detail has never left me.
He was
