A few days blurred into this pattern. The storm was unrelenting, and phone and net signals were still poor. They read aloud from Lauren’s worn novels, voices mingling softly. Mabel’s hands trembled less now, and there was fresh color in her cheeks. Lauren savored the ease, even as questions tugged faintly at the edges of her thoughts.
One evening, tidying Mabel’s coat by the door, Lauren’s fingers brushed a pocket. Inside rattled pill bottles—three, labels from different doctors in unfamiliar towns. “For sleep,” one read. “Anxiety,” said another. Overlaps caught her eye: same class, different doses, all recent refills.