JACKSON

It's dawn already, and the storm has started. Gray clouds press low against the horizon. The kind of sky that feels like it's waiting to break. I don't sleep, and neither does Mira. Sleep is now a luxury we can barely afford.

She sits at the edge of the bed with her elbows on her knees, and her fingers threaded in her hair like she's holding her thoughts in place. I watch her from the doorway, and my chest tightens. She hasn't said a word in hours.

The half-burned photo still lies on ...