I wake before the rest of the packhouse, and for the first time in what feels like forever there is no alarm in my chest and no sense that something is already going wrong somewhere I cannot see. My body still hurts, and my ribs pull when I breathe too deep and my shoulder reminds me what it took to get here, but the pain feels steady instead of urgent, and that difference is enough to make me lie there for an extra second staring at the ceiling.
The room is quiet, not tense and not waiting and just quiet.
I sit up slowly and swing my legs over the side of the bed, and the floor is cold under my feet while the morning light presses in soft through the window, and I move through the routine without rushing because there is no reason to rush.
I shower and wash my hair slowly, and the wate
