Bruce lay on the chaise, staring up at the ceiling—or what he could see of it from the eerie red numbers glowing from the alarm clock sitting on top of the bureau. Squeezing his eyes shut, he scratched at his beard, flipped heavily on his right side, and drew his mother’s patchwork quilt over his ear. I’ve got to sleep. Tomorrow is a heavy day of packing and donating. He could already feel his muscles ache in protest of another weekend of abuse. This is crazy. I’ve got no time to lie here and count sheep. But count he did. He counted the sounds of passing vehicles outside. He estimated how many boxes it would take to pack up the rest of the kitchen and the laundry room. He tallied up all the odd jobs he wanted to get done at work before the official ski season began. He even added up each and every breath he could hear from the other side of the room. This was the first time in over seventeen years he’d heard someone else’s breathing in his bedroom other than Robert’s.
