Jo opens the door, holding it for him, both nobs in her opposing hands, watching him with still copper eyes that are still trying to trace the confusion of knowing something isn't right.

Still isn't right; that only just started not being.

"You could leave a note." Her cheek rest on the door edge. It doesn't sound hopeful. It's what people said about her post cards. The few who knew. It was a thing. Mothers of hunters, who knew the job themselves.