The kettle began to hum, lightly at first, then a high-pitched, insistent whistle. Rachel Swenson walked into the kitchen, switching off the knob for the gas and running her hands across the counter toward the jar of tea bags. She didn’t want to take the pil s they’d given her unless she had to. A cup of tea and an early night in bed would do just fine. She reached for a mug in the cabinet and thought about Michael Kel y, unshaven, arms folded, gun on his hip, slouched in the doorway of the hospital’s examining room like he owned the place, which, in his mind, he probably did. Michael could be rough around the edges, but he was warm, and he was real. She loved feeling safe when he held her, and despised the danger that gave breath to that need for protection. Rachel sighed, grabbed a mug, and turned back toward the stove. A cool breeze plucked at the back of her neck. The image of an open window flashed through her mind; a premonition tiptoed up her spine. She turned again and he was there, inside her home, closing a hand over her mouth and slipping a needle under her skin.
Somewhere far off, her mug crashed from counter to floor. Then she was looking up and he was over her. She saw the edge of a knife and tried to speak, but the words tumbled away. Michael’s face flashed through her mind again and she felt indescribably sad at what felt like his passing. Then she fel, too, amazingly far, until, final y, she was alone, hiding in the blinding white.