The kitchen smells like smoke and something almost like warmth. A year ago, a car accident rewired everything. The man who made mornings feel like punishment is gone - and in his place stands someone who hums off-key while burning toast, who says sorry like he means it, who looks at Isaiah like he's worth looking at. Isaiah watches from the doorway. The mug in his hands is warm. His chest is not. He spent years learning how to disappear at breakfast. Now he doesn't know what to do with a husband who's trying - really, clumsily trying - to be kind. And that might be the most frightening thing of all.