Page 155 of Wreckage and Rain

I write the dedication.

For the man who came back. And for the man who kept the light on while he found his way.

S.R.

I look at the cursor for a second. Then I save.

I close the laptop.

I go to bed.

***

In the morning, I wake up at six.

Colt is asleep next to me. His back is to me. His breathing is the slow regular breathing of a man who's slept eight hours, which he's been doing again, which still surprises me, a small good miracle I keep not expecting. I roll onto my back. Look at the ceiling. The light is coming in the east window in butter color. The sheet is warm. The pillow next to mine has the dent of him in it from the night.

I get up. Quietly. Take the rugby shirt off the chair, pull it over my head. I've decided over the years that any time I leave a bed I get to take a piece of him with me, and the rugby shirt has been the running tribute.

I go to the kitchen. Make coffee. Bring a mug to the writing desk.

I sit down.

I open the laptop.

The dedication is still there. I read it. For the man who came back. And for the man who kept the light on while he found his way.

I read it again.

I don't change it. I don't add to it. The dedication is the right length. I scroll up. To the top of the document. To the first page, which is the title page, which has the working title.

Wreckage and Rain.

Patricia, my publicist, called me yesterday and asked me whether the working title was final. I told her it was. She told me she loved it. She told me the cover designer was going to want it tomorrow. I told her it wasn't changing.

I look at it. Sitting on the screen in the early light in the apartment in Lincoln Park on the day after my last book launched, with the next book already six chapters deep, with the sun coming in the east window at the angle it comes in at on a June morning, with my husband asleep in the next room and my brother asleep in the guest room and a three-year-old's drawing on the wall above the toaster, with the throw blanket from the rooftop folded on the back of the couch.

Wreckage and Rain.

By Summer Rain.

I scroll down past the dedication. To chapter one. I read the first paragraph, which I wrote months ago, which I've been editing in my head ever since.

My name is Summer King-Bennet. This isn't the end. It's the after.

I read it twice. Three times.

I don't change it.

I leave the cursor blinking after the period.

I get up. I take my coffee with me. I go to the bedroom door. I lean against the frame. Colt has turned over in his sleep. He's on his back. One arm flung above his head. Mouth slightly open.The light from the east window has crossed the bed and is in his hair.

I watch him sleep. The sun comes through the window. The dust moves in it. The morning starts. I drink my coffee. I go climb back into the bed. Colt stirs when the mattress dips. His arm comes around my waist before his eyes are open and pulls me back against him. He's warm.

"You're cold," he says, into my hair.

"I was up at the desk."