She knew this was going to be a good day. The pleasant thrum of energy ran through her from head to toe, tickling her, urging her out of bed. So many things to do! The last couple weeks had been an abyssal plane that she had crawled across, unable to breathe or stand or smile, but the weight was gone and the sun was out and she felt fine! She pulled on a pair of yoga pants, put on a T-shirt, washed her face, rinsed out her mouth, ran a comb through her hair.

Quiet, quiet, she told herself. Don’t want to wake anyone else! She bounded down the stairs to the kitchen, trying to stifle the giggles that were welling up inside her. How strange the old her seemed now, the lank-haired woman who slept all day and wept all night, who left her children to fend for themselves and couldn’t stand her husband’s touch. She hadn’t made breakfast in nearly a month, but today that would change.

Pancakes. They all loved pancakes, especially sweet little Cally, who would be overjoyed to have her mother back. Seven-year-old Briton also loved pancakes, a huge pile of them with plenty of syrup and butter, which was bad for his teeth and his health and his waistline, but the overpowering bounty welling up inside her would not allow her to deny him today. Pancakes it would be, a triple batch.

First: put the coffee on.

Then: flour. She scooped several cups’ worth into a large bowl. Lost count. Dumped the flour back into the container, began scooping again, more carefully.

And bacon! Curt would have his bacon this morning. She got the package of bacon out, put it on the counter.

Eggs. She checked inside the carton, saw there were only two. Of course. Curt had been doing the grocery shopping, and he always forgot something. Two was only enough for one batch of pancakes; should she make something else, or run to the store for more?

But what could she make that didn’t use eggs?

To the store it was, then. She whipped on a jacket and some sandals, grabbed her keys and her purse and darted out the door.

At the supermarket she found a spot right by the entrance, but for some reason the store’s automatic doors wouldn’t open for her. She rattled them, banged on them, tried to pry them open. The lights were on, and she could clearly see employees inside, but no one came.

Looking around, she realized the parking lot was almost completely empty. Was it possible they weren’t open yet? She glanced at her watch. 5:50 am. A delighted laugh burst out of her. What a crazy person she was, zooming around the city, banging on grocery-store doors before six o’clock in the morning!

No problem. No prrroblemo. Not an issue.

But: eggs. Still need eggs.

A convenience store would have eggs, probably. She jumped in the car again, peeled out. Couldn’t remember where any convenience stores were, so she just drove randomly. Fast and competent. Took that corner a little too close! Slow down, girl. She saw the QuikMart an instant after she passed it and pulled a U-turn, barely made it, but damn, I’m good, she told herself as she rocketed into the lot and straight into a parking space. Smooth and wicked. Wicked and hot. Wicked hot.

The graveyard clerk looked up from his newspaper as she blew in through the door.

“Eggs?” she said.

“Fresh eggs in the refrigerator case in the back, and hard-boiled eggs—”

She quickly found the refrigerator and grabbed a half-dozen eggs, a half-gallon of milk and some butter. Fried eggs would be good, too, she thought, and took another carton. Fried, or maybe scrambled. Curt liked scrambled eggs.

At the checkout she somehow spilled all her cards on the counter when she pulled out her debit card, but she was pleased with how unruffled she was, how quickly and competently she gathered them back up. There’s no fazing me, she thought. Unruffleable. Unflappable.

Back in the car. Back on the road. Turned on the radio, and rolled down the window. “Hey, hey, I saved the world today-ee-ay,” she belted, then laughed when she realized the radio was playing a talk show and not the Eurythmics at all. Some boring guy was shouting at another boring guy, so she switched off the radio and kept singing. “Everybody’s happy now, the bad thing’s gone away…”

She trailed off when she noticed the siren and flashing lights. The policeman explained that she’d been going twenty miles over the speed limit, but he was understanding when she explained that she’d been singing along with the radio and had gotten a little bit carried away. While he took her license and registration back to his car she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and hummed to herself. “Hey, hey…” Another surge of goodwill filled her, and she rocked in her seat and laughed. The policeman was just doing his job. She’d been speeding; he had to pull her over even if she was a quick and competent driver.

“Here you go, ma’am.” The policeman handed her license and registration back. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time, since your record’s clean. Just be careful about singing while driving.” She gave him a big grin and drove off. Not too slow, not too fast. Smooth and steady. Careful. Carful. Car full.

Curt was in the kitchen when she came in the door. “Hi, sweetcheeks!” she said brightly, depositing the small sack of groceries on the table.

“Uh, hi,” he said. “What’s all this? You cooking something?” He gestured at the room-temperature bacon, the bowl with flour piled in and around it. “And… you went shopping?”

“I know, isn’t it great?” she said. “I’m feeling marvelous, better than ever, and I’m going to cook breakfast for you guys. How do pancakes and bacon sound? Bacon and eggs?”

“Thanks, honey,” he said, “but I can’t wait around. It’s six-thirty—I gotta head to work in ten minutes.”

“Oh. Well, in ten minutes I could whip something up for you! It doesn’t take long for pancakes and bacon to cook.” She grabbed the bacon package, grabbed a knife to open it with. The knife slipped. “Oops.”

“Honey, be careful,” he said.

She pulled the knife out of her thumb. The bright blood dribbled, ran on the counter, formed a small lake. She put the knife down, drew her fingers through the crimson puddle. Crimson and clover, over and over. She laughed and laughed.

“Oh my god, that looks deep! Honey? Julie, you okay?” For some reason he was gripping her hand, binding it with a towel, holding it fast. “Jules, you’re bleeding really bad. We gotta get you to the hospital.”

She dealt him a firm slap. His head rocked, and he stared at her. “This is no time to lose your head,” she said. There was a bloody half-handprint on his cheek. “I’ll just make you breakfast real quick, then you can head out.”