He woke up at three in the morning and went down to the kitchen. The fridge light was the only light. The tile was cold under his bare feet and he noticed the cold travel up through his ankles. He filled a glass at the tap and drank it slowly, and the cold of the water moved down through his chest in a line he could follow. The house was humming faintly — the fridge, some pipe somewhere. He stood at the counter and ran his palm along the grain of the wood. Skin and wood and water and cold tile, at three in the morning — his body reporting in.
