The guest house was too quiet. Naya hated quiet now. At the ward, there had always been someone shouting, crying, humming, slamming doors. Here, there was only the hum of the fridge and the tick of the old wall clock.She sat on the narrow couch, tugging at the edge of the ankle monitor strapped around her leg. It itched, like it wanted to remind her every second that she was free but not free. Zipper had called it a “fancy leash.” She’d laughed then. She wasn’t laughing now.It was the last week of November. Trial picked up again in a few days—December first. The thought sat heavy in her chest, like lead.The door opened, and Zipper walked in, shrugging off his coat. He carried two paper bags.“You bought food?” she asked.“You sound surprised,” he said, setting them on the counter. “I eat. Sometimes I even share.”She rolled her eyes but got up to help him unpack. Burgers, fries, sodas. He pushed one toward her.“Midnight dinner,” he said. “Better than hospital trays.”She smirked.
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