Sarah Jean lay next to him, smoking a cigarette as a new morning arrived. The digital clock on the nightstand was dark: the power was still out.

"When did you start smoking?" he asked.

"After the accident," she replied before letting loose a short series of smoke rings. They drifted slowly upward, expanding and thinning until one by one they disintegrated and vanished. "When did you stop?

"After Amy died. Gave up bourbon, too."

"That worked out real well, Ray," she chuckled.

"Not one drop until last night," he said.

"Well, maybe I don't bring out your best. Maybe we're both too damaged. Maybe we ought to keep our distance."

"Maybe," he conceded. "But this is the first morning in years I wasn't disappointed to wake up."

She inched closer. The rain started again; they could hear it pouring hard against the roof. Far off in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Almost whispering, she asked: "In all those years, did you ever think of me?"

"Just once, maybe twice you crossed my mind after Amy died," he lied. "I almost called you after the accident. I picked up the phone…Rita gave me your number…but I just couldn't do it. I was afraid I'd add to your pain somehow. I sent a card."

"It was the first one I opened in the hospital," she said. "I still have it somewheres."