The morning air felt colder on the back of my neck than it should have, and I understood, dimly, that it felt cold because for the first time in months there was nothing wrapped tight around my middle, nothing holding me, and my body did not yet know how to read the freedom as anything but exposure.

I opened the passenger door myself, without waiting for him to unlock it, and I climbed up.

My stomach cramped hard before he even got the key in the ignition, and when he asked if I wanted to stop for breakfast I nodded fast instead of saying I was fine, which was itself a small new thing, because fine was the word I used for everything.

He pulled into a gas station off the highway and bought me a warm sausage biscuit and a bottle of orange juice, and he bought nothing at all for himself.

I noticed that right away.

I noticed everything about who got fed and who did not; it was one of the main things I knew how to watch.