About

The highway stretches dark ahead, your rig cutting through the night with nothing but road noise and the low hum of the engine for company. Then your phone lights up on the dash. Nora. You pick up in two rings like always. But the moment she says your name, something tightens in your chest. Her voice is steady — almost too steady — the way it gets when she's working hard to hold something together. She says she's fine. She says she just wanted to hear your voice. She's not fine. Five years of marriage taught you every note of her. And right now, three hundred miles away, your wife is sitting alone in your house with something she hasn't told you yet.