At Elena’s door, Roman stopped while the hallway lamps held their small pools of light against the cold dark beyond the windows. His sleeves were turned back, and he looked past her into the room as if checking it himself.
“Have they put enough blankets on the bed? Is it warm enough in there? Do you need anything before I go? My room is along the hall, there.”
“It’s fine.”
“If you need more blankets—”
“I said it’s fine.”
He took her hand before she could pull it behind the door, bent over it, and pressed his mouth to her knuckles. Then he drew her into a brief hug. Elena held herself rigid in his arms until he stepped back.
“Goodnight, Elena.”
She shut the door and turned the lock.
The room waited around her, made ready by people who had never met her. Toiletries stood in the pale marble bathroom. Something soft to sleep in lay folded on the made bed, and the closet held a few women’s clothes with their tags still attached. Everything chosen. Everything placed. Like she had arrived expected.
She sat down on the floor beside the bed, still in the green dress and denim jacket she had worn to ask for a building. The gym. Her mother. Diego. The pre-natal class she was meant to teach in the morning. Her folder on the floor of the South Side Hearing Hall. Her family waiting to hear where she was. Her phone gone.
Then she cried, quietly at first, and then hard enough that she had to fold over herself. When it stopped, the house had gone silent around her, and the bed was still made up.