She fumbles around the sheets looking for her phone. “We need to meet,” he says, telling her that he has new information on the case but would rather not come all the way to Collier. Macy suggests the diner in Walleye Junction and they agree to have breakfast there in an hour. She yawns into her palm and focuses in on the time. It’s only six in the morning. She mutters a few expletives and staggers out of bed. She’s been living out of a suitcase all week and is unsure if she has anything clean to wear. For several miles she follows at a safe distance behind a gritting truck, content to take it slow so she has time to collect her thoughts. Her appearance bothers her. She feels so uncoordinated. She’s always been able to enter a room believing she was taking ownership of it. Now she feels the need to skirt around the edges as if apologizing for her bulk. She sits up a little taller and reminds herself once more that she’s pregnant, not diseased. It’s early Saturday morning and the parking lot is nearly empty.
