“The hearing is at nine tomorrow morning.”

“We need to be at the Davidson County Courthouse by eight.”

He walked over to the small armchair in the corner of the room and sat down.

“Take the bed,” he said.

“I’ll stay here.”

I looked at the queen-sized bed with its thin, floral bedspread.

In the adjoining room, through the cracked door, I could hear the soft, rhythmic breathing of my daughter.

She was sleeping under a pile of blankets, completely unaware of the storm outside.

I lay down on the bed, keeping my clothes on.

The sheets felt crisp and cold against my skin.

I stared at the ceiling, watching the reflection of the passing car lights slide across the plaster.

Nathan sat motionless in the dark corner, his silhouette silhouetted against the bathroom light.

Hours passed in a slow, agonizing crawl.

Every sound outside—the hiss of tires on the wet road, the creak of the motel sign—made my heart race.

I must have drifted off into a light, uneasy sleep.

When I opened my eyes, the room was filled with the gray, watery light of dawn.