The numbness that had encased me since well before—and especially since—my husband’s death finally cracked. No, it didn’t crack. It shattered. It was maybe an hour or two after I’d finished the late-night feeding. All afternoon, the clouds had gathered on the horizon, and the sharp scent of ozone stung my eyes and nose, and I knew what was coming. I didn’t even take Blue out today because I was too edgy, too wound up, and I’d have made him nervous. As I came in from the barn for the last time, a few drops tugged at my hair and slipped under my collar and thudded on my shoulders, and my heart thundered as I pushed open the front door. Thank God for the vodka I’d picked up the other night. I was two shots into the bottle when the lightning came, and two more when the sky broke open. I finally crumbled because it rained that night. Not the kind of rain that whispered in the background like white noise. Not the kind where I’d step out the next morning and notice the grass was wet but not actually remember the rain falling the night before.
