Chapter 70 Ryan The idea starts the way bad ideas usually do simply, and with complete confidence. Maya is sleeping. This is itself an event worth noting—she is, by her own admission and the evidence of the past week, not a good sleeper in ordinary circumstances, which these are not, and the fact that she went down at nine and stayed down and is now, at ten-thirty the following morning, still asleep with her face turned toward the window and her breathing slow and even, is a sign that her body is finally doing the work of recovering properly. I am not going to wake her. I am, however, hungry in a way that has been building since six AM, and I am standing in Maya's kitchen with its elegant stone worktops and its copper pots and its nearly empty refrigerator—Maria stocked essentials before we arrived but not, apparently, accounting for a second person—and I am thinking that Maya deserves to wake up to a proper meal. This is a good thought. Everything that follows from it is somew
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