The first sound was the kettle.
A click, then the ordinary quiet of water that had reached its marked temperature.
Felix woke after an actual night of sleep with a stiff shoulder from a position he would have advised anyone else to avoid. He moved it carefully, felt his own cultivated circulation settle and decided that being capable of understanding a mistake did not prevent him from sleeping on his arm.
Morning light reached the kitchen.
The small replacement device continued its honest routine in the familiar setting. No extraordinary old reserve waited behind the modest gauge. The body he had learned to inhabit remained his.
He poured hot water, put breakfast on a plate and sat down.
Yesterday’s borrowed chairs were stacked where their owners had agreed to collect them. They were not scattered as an unpaid puzzle for the first person out of bed.
Barnaby had already left for his chosen day.
