I stand up and press my hands against the wood. I feel you stand up and press your hands against mine.

“Mum?”

I open the door.

I DON’T GO to school.

I don’t answer your phone.

I shut the curtains and leave the lights off.

I pretend no one’s home and I’m the house: an empty shell house, all my people gone. Just walls and unused furniture. I lie on the floor and watch the ceiling. Tiny half shadows from the top and bottom of the curtains pass across it with the sun.

Lettie comes knocking.

“Rae? Rae. I know you’re there.”

I’m not. I speak it in my head because houses have no vocal cords.

“Let me in.”

No. It sighs out my windows.

I feel her waiting at the front door. I blink at the shadows on the ceiling. They wave back.

“Come over. No pressure. I’m cooking. Come over.”

I close my eyes.

DAY 48

FRIDAY

I’M WOKEN BY knocking at the door. My shoulders ache from the cold floor. Splinter lifts his head off my thighs; I feel his alertness in my bones.

There’s more knocking.

“Rae?”

It’s Lettie. Again.

“Rae? I know you’re in there. Are you okay?”

I let the house speak for me. It chooses to say nothing.

“Are you sick? Rae?” I hear the door handle rattle.

It’s too much for Splinter, he skittles long-legged and hungry to the front door. Gives her a yip.

I wonder if I’m covered in dust. Maybe I’m one of the floorboards now. I wiggle a toe experimentally and feel it move. Not floorboards yet, then.

“Rae, I’m worried.” The whole door rattles now. Splinter barks. The noise makes the house flinch. “I’m not going away, Rae. Not till you open the door.”

“I’m fine.” I wonder if I spoke out loud or just in my head.

The door rattles again. “Rae? Come on, I’m worried.”

I’m tired. I want her to go away. I try again, forcing my vocal cords to work. “I’m fine.” It comes out croaky. But the door stops rattling.

“Can I come in?”

“No. I’m just tired. I’m sleeping.”

“Rae.”

“I’ve got a headache.” That’s true, I have.

“I’m cooking lasagna. Come over, okay?”

I turn my head so I can see down the hall. There’s a shadow across the bottom of the door. Splinter paces back and forth in front of it.

“Go away, Lettie.”

It hovers for a bit. Then it goes.

SPLINTER’S PACING. I hear him pushing his water and food bowls around. I don’t need to see them to know they’re both empty. He pads over and sticks his tongue in my ear, then blows a snuff into the side of my neck. He nudges my cheek.