The packhouse is still quiet when I wake up. The kind of quiet that feels temporary like it is waiting for something to break it open again and I lie there for a second staring at the ceiling while my body reminds me exactly what yesterday cost.
My ribs ache when I breathe too deep and my shoulder protests when I roll it. There is a dull throb along my jaw that pulses in time with my heartbeat and none of it surprises me because I remember every hit that put it there.
I push myself up anyway. That is the only thing that still feels like mine. I brush my teeth slowly then stand at the mirror and drag a brush through my hair while I try not to wince when my arm pulls too far. I gather it back into a tight tie at the base of my neck because loose gets in the way and I can’t afford anything
