Linda was curled in the center of the bed like a question mark, knees hugged to her chest, arms locked around her shins as if sheer grip strength could keep her from flying apart.
Shoulders shaking with the kind of silent sobs that hurt to watch.
Her favorite cloud-print pajamas—the ones Sarah had saved up for years ago—were twisted around her hips, thin cotton clinging damp to her skin.
One strap had slipped off her shoulder, baring the soft upper swell of her breast. Her thighs were pressed tight together, trembling, slick with tears or the lonely, desperate slide of her own fingers earlier—she'd never say which.
She looked small. Fragile. Undone.
And heartbreakingly, achingly wet—
Peter's chest caved in. All the god-level power in the universe, and the only thing that mattered right then was that his mom was breaking in half on a bed too big for one person.
"Mom," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
