Sometime during the night, Mary had stretched out on the remainder of the couch, using my lap as a pillow. I ran my fingers through my hair and looked around the now visible room. I stared at the painting above the mantle again. It was much more vivid in the light. I thought about being on that ship, wondering if I could sail it, wondering if it would be better out on the ocean. I looked down at Mary, the way the sun lay against her face, and wondered about our freedom. I thought of how long we would continue to run. I thought of the misery that would greet us. I thought of futility. She awoke with a sigh, the slightest breath. Her body tensed as she stretched and looked up at me. “Good morning,” she said, blinking. “Are you hungry?” “I’m starving,” she replied. She sat up and blinked at the sun, dreary eyed and yawning. Working at a kink in her neck, she said, “I can’t believe I slept so well.” “Yesterday was a hell of a day, you were tired,” I said, standing up, relieving my own kinks.
