The next morning, I sat stiffly at the dining table, the edge of my chair pressing into the back of my legs. My hands clutched my coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping me steady. The steam had already faded, leaving the drink lukewarm, but I still held it close, raising it to my lips now and then just so I had something to do.

The plate in front of me was filled with scrambled eggs and toast, but my stomach twisted too tightly for food. I poked at it with my fork, pushing the pieces ...