The safe house was quiet at oh-nine-twelve.
Caleb had slept four hours on the couch in the front room. He had slept beside the body of Aris until Vance had come in at oh-seven-thirty and carried the body out to the van. Vance had not woken Caleb. Caleb had woken because the change in air at the open door was different from the change in air at any other door in the house. He had let Vance leave with the body and then he had gone back to sleep for two more hours.
He had not dreamed.
He woke at oh-nine-eleven with his face against the throw blanket Iris had put over him on Day One, which now smelled like the kitchen tea his mother had been making since oh-seven, and which had been on the couch every night since.
He sat up.
His ribs were quiet.
The silver under his skin was the temperature of the room. It was not warm. It was not cold. It was just there, in the lines, where it had been for eight days now, and where it was going to be for the rest of his life.
