He ate alone that night, listening to the soft sounds of her chewing from the floor by the radiator.
The house on Linwood Lane was no longer silent. Music played from a crackly radio in the kitchen—something with a beat. Two plates sat on the table, at the same height. A blue backpack waited by the front door, packed with cans of beans (organized, because some habits don't die) and a map with a river circled in red. live with a slave
"What's wrong?"