My mouth curves.
Then doesn’t.
I go back inside.
The night stretches.
I sleep badly.
Not dramatically. No tossing and turning. Just broken sleep. Too aware of the house. Of the room. Of the chest of drawers with the frame turned face down on it.
At five-thirty, I give up.
Morning is barely there.
Grey light at the edges of the blinds. The kind of quiet before other people arrive and start ruining it with dogs and optimism.
I pull on joggers and a T-shirt, check Heath, and find him still awake, sitting in the beanie like a grumpy tenant waiting for maintenance.
“Morning.”
He twitches his nose.
“Good chat.”
I open the cage and offer him a seed.
He takes it, shoves it into his cheek, and climbs onto my hand without much prompting.
That still feels strange.
The trust.
I settle him against my chest while I top up his water, and he does not try to escape. Just presses into the fabric, warm and small and calm.
I should take a photo.
That is all I mean to do.
A photo for the account.
Or for Philip.
No.
For the account.
Probably.
I reach for my phone with one hand, Heath tucked against me, thumb clumsy because I’m trying not to drop either of them.
The screen lights.
Philip’s contact is still near the top from last night.
My thumb slips.
The phone starts calling.
