“We just want to be sure you’re looked after, sweetheart, without all this terrible stress,” Martha said softly, sliding her hand off mine to pick up her silver spoon and go back to her slow, rhythmic stirring.

I lifted the heavy mug in both hands and took a small sip of the hot ginger tea, letting it warm my throat.

Deep in the inner pocket of my heavy wool coat, resting snugly against my ribs, the little green light on the encrypted pager blinked once.

By eight the following morning, steam was rising off a heavy steel pot on the stove.

Martha lifted the lid, and the smell of egg noodles and boiled chicken filled the kitchen.