My husband asked me to let my sister be his “wife” for one night. He said it like he was asking me to pass the salt.

Chicago in late October had a way of making every window look lonely. The towers downtown glowed through mist, traffic hissed on Lake Shore Drive, and people who had spent the day pretending to be important were peeling themselves out of office clothes and trying to remember who they were at home. Carissa parked in the narrow driveway behind the brick two-story she had bought three years earlier in Lincoln Park, sat with both hands still resting on the steering wheel, and let her eyes close for exactly six seconds.

Six seconds was all she gave herself.

Then she went inside.

She had argued three motions in Cook County that day, fielded two panicked calls from junior associates who billed like they were allergic to clarity, and signed a stack of documents thick enough to refinance a stranger’s life. The kind of day that would have crushed some people had simply been Tuesday for her. She kicked off her heels in the mudroom, carried her laptop bag into the kitchen, and started water boiling for pasta because cooking, unlike people, still responded to effort.

Damen Cross was already home.

He had been home for hours.