"Don't be silly. Your sister's in there meditating and reflecting on her behavior. Once she's done being sorry, she'll come out on her own."
Harry chewed the orange, mumbling through a full mouth:
"Then how come she hasn't made a single sound?"
"Being stubborn, as usual."
Terence didn't even look up. He was busy hanging a banner on the wall.
The banner was a gift from Maplewood Orphanage, embroidered with four gilded words: Boundless Love.
He stepped back two paces, admired it with satisfaction, then pulled out his phone and snapped a photo.
The living room was a picture of warmth and prosperity: the grand piano, the commendation banner, brand-new space heaters.
Harrison was draped over the piano bench, grinning ear to ear.
On the other side of the wall, in the second bedroom, the air had grown so foul that not even a fly could survive in it.
The curled-up body inside was coated in a layer of black grime. In that sealed, windowless space, her body temperature was dropping, degree by degree.
No one knew. No one wanted to know.
The next morning, my mother was up before dawn for the first time in memory.
Not for me.