She sat on the camper step, watching the dogs chase morning shadows across the gravel, trying to quiet the argument unraveling in her mind. He pissed on the cushion, for God’s sake. At 1:30 a.m., no less—drunken, slurring, oblivious to anything but the flood of alcohol fogging his brain. “Why not the toilet?” she’d asked. “IDK,” he’d replied. Just kept peeing. And then came the shove, the bruise, the fury. Her Jeep was packed—dogs in, heart racing—ready to bolt, until the brakes reminded her just how trapped she was. But she hadn’t left. She stayed. Again. And now here he was, sober-faced, grateful in that quiet, awkward way he gets—yet not one word of apology. Not for the cushion. Not for the shove. Not for shattering the fragile peace she clung to. Maybe I’m the fool, she thought. But still, she was making an exit plan. Just in case. Glasgow, Kentucky—cheap rent, dogs welcome, trails waiting to be wandered. Maybe she’d find herself out there, past the noise, beyond the sorry he never said. Maybe this time she’d go. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d give him one last chance to never touch a bottle again.