She took a slow sip of warm tea and watched the steam drift up into the still morning air.

When the old refrigerator’s compressor kicked on with a low hum, she didn’t flinch, and she didn’t glance back at the hallway door.

Richard stood by the stove, turning two slices of bread in a hot cast-iron skillet with a wooden spatula.

“The air out here smells different,” Emily said.

“That’s just wet pine needles and new grass,” Richard said, sliding the toast onto a clean white plate.

“No,” Emily said, looking down into her mug.