Becky woke to the start of her van’s engine. It was dark except for the nightlight she kept on in the brewery—she’d banged her shin more than once when some overpressure alarm had gone off in the early days or a timer had run out. Now her living room was never truly dark.
It was so quiet that she could hear the gear shift lever dropping into place and the parking brake clunk off.
Someone was taking her van.
She heaved the blanket aside, swung her legs off the couch—
And landed in a heap on the floor between the couch and the coffee table on which she banged her elbow.
Her knee. A leg brace. And as she lay on the floor, a slow cascade of pills rolled off the edge of the table and began piling up inches from her nose.
Pain meds.
She’d blown out her knee, which used that moment of awar
