I snatched the divorce paper before the ink could settle in my head. "It’s official," I said to the empty room, because saying it out loud kept it from turning into a ghost. The paper crinkled between my fingers. The letters on the top were ornate, formal, meant to strip a name clean. My fingers were not steady. The headache hit like a fist. Flash: black dust, the sear of a welded door, someone screaming for water I could not give. One second. One cold night. I had died once. I do not rehearse being buried twice. I folded the paper into a narrow strip and tossed it onto the stone floor. It landed near the basket of drying herbs and a chipped teacup. I showed it to the room like a trophy. "Nope," I said. A laugh escaped me. It sounded dangerous in the small house. It sounded like a promise. I dressed in the plain linen I owned. The sun had already softened in the valley. The tea terraces blurred in the morning mist. I let the braided cord of my hair fall behind my back and stepped out. At the bamboo gate, Damon Carney leaned against a post. He had the clinic's weathered sign slung under his arm. He held Cruz in one large hand like the boy might roll away. Cruz stared at me with the wariness of a child who judges adults by what they carry. "Morning," I said. Damon did not smile