Like they were made to be there.
We drive in silence after that, but it's a different kind of silence. Softer.
The kind of silence that used to fill the spaces between us before words became weapons and love became something we had to fight for.
By the time the GPS tells me we're an hour from the facility, it's fully dark.
Vanna is dozing against the window, her breath fogging the glass in soft, rhythmic clouds.
She looks younger when she sleeps.
More like the girl I married and less like the stranger who's been wearing her face.
I should keep driving.
I should push through and get her to the facility tonight, before either of us has a chance to change our minds.
But there's a motel up ahead, its neon sign flickering against the darkness, and something in my chest tells me to stop.
One more night.
That's all I'm asking for.
One more night before I have to let her go.
I pull into the parking lot and kill the engine.
Vanna stirs, blinking at me in confusion. "Where are we?"
"About an hour out," I say. "I thought we could stop for the night. Get some rest before tomorrow."
She looks at the motel—a rundown place with peeling paint and a vacancy sign that's missing half its letters—and then back at me.
Something flickers in her eyes.
Understanding, maybe.
Or fear. Or both.
"Okay," she says softly.
The room is exactly what you'd expect from a roadside motel in the middle of nowhere.
One queen bed with a floral comforter that's seen better days.
A TV that looks like it hasn't been updated since the nineties.
A bathroom so small you can barely turn around in it.
But it's clean enough, and it's private, and right now that's all that matters.
Vanna sits on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap, while I lock the door behind us.
She looks small and lost, like a child who's wandered away from home and doesn't know how to find her way back.
"You should take a shower," I say. "Warm up. I'll order some food."
She nods but doesn't move.
