Her dog was not there to be fed or let out or to jump onto the bed and nuzzle her. He wasn’t there to push against her, taking more space.

Her bedside lamp wasn’t there to her left but the room was bright enough as it was, even though the sun hadn’t risen.

There were no soft curtains to temper sounds or plush carpet to pad her feet to the bathroom. And there was no way to lock the bathroom door.

The window didn’t look out to the courtyard with her favorite bench by the azaleas. The air around her held no moisture or sweetness.

There was no space on the bed to roll into a fetal position. And there was no back to her gown.

The aroma of coffee from her automatic coffee machine didn’t fill her nostrils but she was wide awake — jittery and lonely and terrified.