He woke with his face against the pillow and his left hand numb.
For a moment he stayed very still.
Then he moved the arm, freeing it from beneath the edge of the duvet. Sensation returned in a slow, unpleasant prickling. He'd bent it in his sleep despite arranging it carefully. An ordinary mistake.
Light came through the curtains.
The room was empty.
He sat up. His thigh pulled, the same three old places. The tender mark on his upper arm stung when the sheet brushed it. He looked down at himself, at the whole skin between the scars.
No fresh wounds.
He stayed there until he could put his feet on the floor without hurrying.
On the phone the night was recorded. He watched enough to see himself asleep, then turning over, then drawing the duvet closer because the room had cooled. Near dawn he had put an arm across the empty side of the bed.
Nobody came in.
He stopped the playback.
He turned the camera off.
Downstairs he made tea. The first attempt to lift the kettle with the left hand was a habit, and he corrected it before the weight caught. He used the right. The movement still pulled at the newer scar.
He set the mug on the table and opened the curtains.
The street was damp. Someone had put lights in a front window across the road, a small tree flashing unevenly. A delivery driver was trying to find a number which had been painted the same colour as the door.
Daniel watched him walk past it twice.
His phone lit up.
Leah had sent a photograph. The dog in her chair, a scrap of blue sky above the yard wall. Her message said she'd been allowed to sit down eventually, on the floor.
He wrote, Sensible dog.
Then, Slept.
Her answer arrived while he was cutting bread.
Good. So did I.
He smiled.
There was a message from Jonas as well, about the next café order. He wanted a different size. A pastry someone could eat without getting half of it down a coat.
People could take their coats off, Daniel wrote.
Radical. Make them smaller.
He put the phone down.
Jonas was working. Slowly, with help, in ways he'd never planned.
He browned the bread in the pan because he liked it better that way. Butter, a little salt. He cut an apple and ate a slice while the bread cooked.
The kitchen filled gradually with the smell.
He stood near the pan, close enough to feel the heat on his face. He could taste the apple, tart at first, sweet towards the skin. Nothing arrived from the other end of the street. Nothing told him who was passing outside unless he turned and looked.
The morning had edges.
He took the bread off before it burned.
At the table he ate with his hands, the left resting between bites. He had work later. Ruth had told him when to come and how many people she expected, which meant nothing except that more or fewer would arrive. There would be things to lift he would ask somebody else to lift. There would be food he could still make well.
He finished the tea.
Outside, the driver finally found the right door.
Daniel picked up the apple again. In the cold woods he would have smelled it before he could see it, known its bruised places, the hands which had moved it. He remembered the reach of that world, how much came towards him when he breathed.
He bit through the skin.
Juice ran onto his thumb. He caught it with his mouth before it fell, and took another bite.