Rachel’s mom said the next day when Rachel came into the kitchen to grab some dinner before heading to her night shift. “Yellow must not be my color,” Rachel said drily as she yanked at her scrub top. She rummaged through the fridge and emerged with a bag of soft tortillas and some smoked-turkey lunch meat. “Pasta will be done in twenty minutes,” Jackie said as she buttered slices of French bread and sprinkled garlic over them. Rachel didn’t respond, knowing her mom would be insulted by her plans to grab a wrap and call it good. “Didn’t sleep well?” her mom continued as she worked. “Didn’t sleep well.” “I would’ve thought you’d sleep like a baby after the unexpected adrenaline rush—and crash—on the beach last night.” “One would’ve thought.” Instead of sleeping soundly, though, she’d been tormented by her waking thoughts as well as her dreams.
