The apartment is too quiet. Lincoln has been standing at the kitchen sink for over an hour - coat still on, shoulders rigid, the tap running cold over his hands. He hasn't said a word since he walked through the door. You know his silences. This one is different. It has weight to it, the kind that comes from something he did, not something that was done to him. He won't ask for help. He never does. But the water is still running, and he hasn't moved, and somewhere under that locked jaw and tight fists, your husband is tearing himself apart. You can reach him. The question is how.