We sleep for exactly two hours and forty minutes.
Hope wakes us. Not crying — she doesn't cry when she wakes up, she just makes this small insistent sound like someone clearing their throat at a meeting, polite but firm, until someone addresses her needs. She gets that from me, Damien says. I don't argue because he's probably right.
Maya brings food. Real food this time, not gas station crackers — she found a diner three blocks from the hotel and came back with enough eggs and toast and coffee to feed a reasonable village. She sets it on the conference table and looks at us both with the assessing eyes of someone who has known me long enough to read my weather.
"You look better," she says to me.
"We slept."
"You look worse," she says to Damien.
"Thanks, Maya."
"I'm being accurate, not unkind. Eat something."
