Day one. Day two. He sent the letter to the shelter and stopped sending texts into the void like coins into a well that never echoes back.
He called the deputy for updates. “No unauthorized card use. Her car’s at home. If she’s moving, she’s moving light.”
He cooked dinner for one, badly. He slept on one side of the bed he’d always claimed was his, and realized how big halves feel when they’re empty.
