Sunlight slips through dirty blinds in a dusty hotel room, falling across her eyes as she dreams.  I don't remember where we are, but I know that we are Here.

The new day is being counted off in ticks of water as it drips into a calcium-stained sink, and outside, traffic slows and stalls after metal mangles itself into a new shape on the interstate.

There's a paint stain on the concrete outside of our door, the memoir of an accident that happened months ago, and perhaps longer, years ago, before any of this happened to any of us.