The packhouse is quiet when I wake and the kind of quiet that settles over everything feels wrong, like it does not belong in a place that has been loud and tense for so long. I lie there for a second and stare at the ceiling while my body reminds me of every hit from yesterday, and my ribs ache when I breathe too deep and my shoulder pulls when I shift too quickly, and there is a heaviness in my limbs that comes from pushing past where I should have stopped.
I sit up anyway because routine matters, and it is the only thing that still feels steady.
I move through the room slowly and brush my teeth before standing at the mirror and dragging the brush through my hair while I try not to wince when it catches. My movements are careful and controlled and I tie my hair back tight because loose
