Tote bag slung on one shoulder, she feels like she's stepped through the looking-glass.

The smell of fresh coffee wafting from the kitchen, the rumpled sheets, the half-empty bottle of water she left on the nightstand -- everything's just as it was when they left, the house still and silent, holding its breath for their return.

(It's a silly thought, one better suited to a six-year-old, and she banishes it almost immediately.)

She returns Bill's smile; draping her bag on the outer knob of the closet door, she crosses the room to make the bed.