He came home a day early.
No message, no explanation — she came out of the hospital at six and he was at the entrance, leaning against the car with his jacket on and his hands in his pockets and the specific quality of someone who had been there long enough to be comfortable with the waiting.
She stopped walking.
He looked up.
"You said tomorrow," she said.
"I did," he said.
"The committee sessions—"
"Finished early," he said.
She looked at him.
He looked back.
The bond between them — warm, present, the specific frequency it had at twenty-four weeks which was fuller than before, more directional, carrying something extra that was becoming less like an echo and more like a voice.
"Caelen," she said.
"He wanted to come," he said. Simply. "He's been— he tracks where you are. More
