Five-thirty. Ranger’s day started early. I heard the shower running, and I drifted back to sleep. It was a little after eight o’clock when I finally made my way to the kitchen in my new clothes. The Pilates pants had been a good choice. The material was soft and stretchy over my scabbed-up knee. A decanter of coffee, a bagel and cheese plate, and fresh fruit had been set out on the counter for me. The coffee was still hot. I helped myself to breakfast and found a note from Ranger telling me the Macan was in the garage and the key was in the glove compartment, and that Lula had my messenger bag. The note had been propped up against the little plastic container of antibiotics I’d gotten at the hospital. I took one of the pills and washed it down with coffee. I brushed my teeth and tried to ignore the large scrape on my face. It’s just skin, I told myself. It’ll grow back. And besides, it takes the attention away from the pimple that’s almost all gone.
