Mark did not drink his coffee; instead, he set the mug down with a hard, deliberate force that sent a brown splash over the rim and onto the wood.
“It is not congestion, it is a saw cutting through dry timber right through my pillow,” he said, staring at the brown puddle.
I reached for a napkin to clean the spill, but his hand shot out and pressed his palm flat over the wet spot, stopping my arm.
“Leave it,” he said.
I let go of the napkin and adjusted the heavy leather strap of my work bag where it hung over the back of my chair.
Upstairs, the floorboards creaked as Emma got out of bed, her small, uneven footsteps moving toward the bathroom.
Mark tilted his head toward the ceiling, his jaw muscle tightening as he listened to the faint sound of water running through the pipes.
