The morning lay over the city like a fine, cold cloth. The sky was milky, as if someone had mixed water into the paint, and the light falling through my window made the dust in the air visible. I was awake before the alarm rang, counting the breaths that echoed against the ceiling. Only the chain moved when I sighed—a small, metallic moon that scraped against the fabric of my sweater.
Downstairs, dishes clattered. Mom's footsteps kept a steady rhythm, Dad's newspaper rustled softly, belonging to his first coffee like foam belonged to her milk. I got up, stuck my hands into my sleeves as if they were pockets, and asked myself the question I asked every morning: Can I manage today?
I decided: Yes. A little bit.
The kitchen smelled of oatmeal and orange peel. Tom was already sitting at the table, swinging his feet, though they actually reached the floor now. He was juggling his ball with his knees, as if it were a pet that needed feeding.
