Gray. Barbara's life was turning into the same pedestrian gray that she had shunned in her teens. She had slammed the door on a faded, limp, and laundered out life and held it shut until now when it squeaked ajar to suck at her again. Two good years was enough to invest in a project. Two good years, then a year tidying and regrouping before you begin to drift in slow motion to gray.

She was breaking the chains and moving on. There was no falling back, only leaping forward to snatch her future before it was swallowed up.