I wake to the sound of pacing, not loud enough to be panic but sharp enough to scrape against my nerves, and when I open my eyes the packhouse ceiling comes into focus while Nathan’s voice carries through the partially open bedroom door, low and controlled and stretched tight like someone is pulling it from both ends.
I sit up slowly, braid loose over my shoulder from where I slept on it, and for a second I just listen, because tone tells you more than words ever will.
I grab my toothbrush on the way to the bathroom and squeeze paste onto it without looking, and I’m brushing when I step into the hallway, foam sharp in my mouth while Nathan turns toward the window with his phone pressed hard against his ear.
“Yes,” he says, and the word sounds like it costs him something. “We understand
