It was almost midnight when the first whisper reached me.

The packhouse was quiet — too quiet — save for the faint hum of crickets and the wind’s soft breath against the window panes. Kristen wasn’t with me; he had been buried in late work at his office, overseeing reports from the southern border. He’d barely spoken at dinner, his mind miles away, his frustration simmering beneath every clipped answer.

I’d told him to rest. He’d just kissed my forehead distractedly, muttered ...