Chapter 66
A warm body lay against her back.
Dana blinked at the wall.
Someone was in her bed.
But this wasn’t her wall. No pictures of colliding galaxies. No printouts of computer models of particle decay toward a black hole threshold. None of Mom’s music playing incessantly through the heating vent. She could use that at the moment. A little Leonard Bernstein segueing through Leonard Cohen on its way to Leonard Nimoy’s “Ballad of Bilbo Baggins.”
Instead she was faced with a rustic wooden wall and a very small picture, exquisitely framed, of a single, perfect, purest yellow daffodil. Each little crinkle of the inner cup caught the sunlight until the flower appeared to glow from within.
And a warm body breathed in the heavy rhythms of sleep against her back. Butt-to-butt, shoulder-to
