Morning arrives without drama, which feels like a small mercy after everything that has come before, and I wake to the quiet sounds of the packhouse settling into its rhythm rather than alarms or shouted orders. The light is soft through the window, the air cool, and for a few seconds I lie still, cataloguing sensation the way Alice taught me to, checking for dizziness, pain, nausea, and finding only the familiar ache in my ribs and the dull reminder of my arm that tells me healing is still in progress but no longer fragile.
Adam is still asleep.
That alone feels like a victory, because he has been running on vigilance for days, and the bond hums quietly between us, steady and untroubled, as if it approves of the rare moment of rest. I slide carefully out of bed and pad into the bathroom
