The doorbell rang at eleven AM.
Aurora was in the kitchen — pot on the stove, the particular Saturday morning smell of something cooking that had no deadline attached to it. She'd woken late by her standards, had made coffee, had stood at the window for twenty minutes watching the city without any particular agenda, which was the closest thing to rest she'd managed in two weeks.
She wiped her hands on a cloth.
The doorbell rang.
She wasn't dressed for company. Shorts, a tank top, her hair still loose from sleep — the particular Saturday morning version of herself that existed only when no one was supposed to see it. She crossed to the door, looked through the peephole.
Ricky.
She turned. Reached for the closet by the entrance — the one she used for coats, for the things she grabbed on the way out. Her hand found something immediately. She pulled it on without looking at it, her attention already back on the door.
