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I close Instagram, then wander around the cabin.

Do something else.

Anything besides staring at Callie Quinn’s Instagram.

I don’t listen.

I reopen Instagram.

There’s another picture.

Callie’s sitting at her desk in a sweatshirt, her blonde curls piled messily on her head. No makeup that I can see. Black-framed glasses sit on her nose. She’s holding her iced coffee toward the camera, a smile on her face.

Something pulls tight in my chest.

I stare longer than I should.

She looks happy.

I like it.

Fuck.

I move to the next picture. It's some graphic for an author. I barely look at it. Then the Story ends.

I tap Callie’s profile picture again. It starts over.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I close the app and toss my phone onto the couch.

This has to stop.

I need something to do. Something physical. Something that doesn’t involve Callie Quinn.

I head outside.

The November air bites at my face as I walk around the cabin, then take a trail into the woods.

My body feels better today. Not normal, but closer.

I roll my shoulders, testing the pull in my side.

Then I start jogging, my pace much slower than normal.

I make it maybe a quarter mile before pain shoots through my side.

“Fuck.”

I stop, my hand pressing against the wound, breathing through the ache. Before this, I could kill a man, scale a fence, and disappear without anyone knowing I was there. Now, jogging through the woods nearly takes me out.

Technically, the knife nearly took me out. Jogging is just reminding me.

I turn around.

By the time I reach the cabin, I’m pissed off, cold, and more restless than before.

My phone is exactly where I left it.