The cut on my arm still bandaged, still tender, still a reminder of what happened.
I don't need to see it.
Don't need that reminder right now.
I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair into a messy ponytail.
Simple tasks.
Normal tasks.
The kind of things I took for granted before.
Before a man with a knife showed me how fragile normal really is.
When I come back out, Gunnar is still asleep, still hasn't moved.
I watch him for another moment, memorizing the peaceful expression on his face.
Then slip out the door.
The clubhouse feels different today.
There's an energy in the air.
A tension.
The kind that comes before something big.
Something dangerous.
I notice it immediately as I descend the stairs.
Men huddled in small groups, their voices low and serious.
Conversations that stop mid-sentence when I approach.
Eyes that dart away, not meeting mine.
Something is happening.
Something tonight.
I know it in my bones even before anyone says a word.
The air itself feels charged, electric with anticipation and dread.
In the kitchen, I find my mom making coffee.
The familiar smell of it fills the room—rich and dark and comforting.
She looks up when I enter, and her face softens. "Baby girl. How are you feeling?"
"Better. Sore, but better."
She crosses to me, cups my face in her hands.
Studies me with those mother's eyes that see everything.
