Chapter 1 - The Topography of Cotton
The digital clock on the wooden nightstand hummed a silent, glowing red.
The bedroom was a sanctuary built from heavy oak and thick, woven fabrics.
A single bedside lamp stood on the right side of the mattress.
Its bulb burned with a low, amber intensity.
The light carved a sharp line across the massive expanse of the king-sized bed.
It left the corners of the room drowning in thick, warm shadows.
On the far left side of the mattress, the springs groaned under the sudden shift of human weight.
A woman leaned back against the towering brown headboard.
Her long, dark brown hair fell in messy, unbrushed waves across the collar of her striped pajamas.
Her right elbow dug into the soft cotton of her pillow.
Her left hand hovered in the air, gripping a smartphone wrapped in a cracked silicone case.
The dark glass of the screen reflected the amber glow of the lamp.
The front-facing camera was open.
It recorded the microscopic, rhythmic rising and falling of her chest.
On the opposite side of the continental divide of the mattress, the air was in motion.
A man in a faded grey t-shirt gripped the edge of a heavy winter blanket.
His knuckles were pale from the tight grip.
He pulled the thick fabric upward, dragging it over his denim-clad knees, over his waist, stopping right below his ribs.
The rough stubble of a short brown beard cast tiny, jagged shadows across his jawline.
His breathing was heavy, the slow, exhausted exhale of a man who had been working on his feet for twelve hours.
He didn't look at the glowing lens of the phone.
He just closed his eyes, letting his head sink into the memory foam.
Then, the topography of the bed fundamentally changed.
A small, chaotic mass of kinetic energy launched itself over the mother’s shins.
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The mattress dipped violently.
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