"Do you think there's water in here?" Venna asked, sitting up on the mattress, still in no hurry to put anything on. The sheet had slipped to her waist.
Morning light from the window laid a pale stripe across her skin, cutting over one bare breast, the soft plane of her stomach, the curve of her hip.
"I should be asking you that." I crossed to the window. "You've been coming here your whole life."
It came out sharper than I meant it to.
Something had started building in me since I opened my eyes—a low, patient guilt with nowhere to put itself—and it was coming out sideways at the person who deserved it least. The face of the newborn kept arriving behind my eyes every time I blinked.
"But are we good?" she asked from behind me.
"Yeah."
I reached the window and looked out.
Not many of them. Two that I could see, moving through the yard at the back of the building in slow overlapping circles. The grass was damp with dew. Their feet left dark, irregular tracks.
