“Is Rosalie getting better?” Brooklyn asked, looking up the moment the door swung open.

“She’s having a much better night, sweetie,” I said, sinking carefully onto the edge of the cushions so I wouldn’t pull my surgical stitches.

“The doctor said her lungs are starting to clear up.”

Kevin reached down and unzipped the small canvas duffel bag sitting on the coffee table.

“I need to run home for thirty minutes,” Kevin said, tossing his heavy ring of keys into his right palm.

“I want to grab fresh clothes for tomorrow, and I need to make sure the back door is locked.”