Each morning his face flushed as he remembered the boy's words, "I want that shovel. It's just like yours." And each morning he fell to his knees, extended his arms, then plunged his hands into the ... [+]
Georgia lies in bed, eyes closed, curled into a ball, listening to the soft tick-tick-tick from the clock in the living room as it counts down the minutes until morning. The minutes tick into hours, and the hours creep past midnight, past one, past three, and still, sleep does not come.
The bed is too big, too empty, the nook behind her knees, too cold. Even though she's rolled up an extra blanket and tucked it into the empty space—a placebo is what she'd have called it back in her nursing days—it doesn't help.
It's only been three days, she tells herself. You'll get used to it.