I do not rush it because rushing creates noise, and noise becomes pattern, and patterns once visible become defensible under the language of precaution and unity. So I begin with routine, not as habit but as camouflage, moving through the morning in the same careful rhythm I have used for weeks, letting the pack see exactly what it expects to see.
Shower first, hot water running steady over my shoulders while steam blurs the edges of the mirror and makes the world small and manageable. I work shampoo through my hair twice even though once would do, fingers pressing into my scalp with deliberate pressure, then rinse slowly and step out without hurrying. I dry off, brush my teeth until mint burns sharp against my tongue, and braid my hair tight and smooth, tugging the strands into order as
