By noon, the penthouse is bathed in warm, golden daylight.
I’ve showered and changed into an oversized flannel shirt and my softest leggings, my hair wrapped in a loose knot at the crown of my head. The simple routine of getting dressed has grounded me, making me feel less like a patient awaiting news and more like myself again.
Locke is standing at the open pantry when I walk into the kitchen, a large bag sitting on the floor by his feet.
"Before we talk shop," Locke says, holding up a box of heavily processed, high-sodium instant noodles with a wry grin. "We need to clear out the junk. Doctor Google says we should probably swap out the heavy preservatives and crazy sodium levels for whole foods. What do you think? Trash or keep?"
"Trash," I say, leaning back against the kitchen isla
