I’m not having this. “Ten.” I say. “Ten and a half, and I just pulled you out from under a bookshelf and probably stopped you from being eaten alive by rats.” The word catches in my throat.

Splinter starts to pound at the side gate.

I stand up. “So, you’re welcome.”

“Lettie.” The old-goat face is gone; the one that replaces it’s almost nice.

“What?”

“I’m Lettie. And thank you.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “I’m Rae. And that’s okay.” I’m standing half facing her, not sure what to do with my hands. Splinter barks. “I’d better get home.”

“Sure, sure.” She nods me off her porch.

DAY 32

WEDNESDAY

THE LETTIE SMELL stayed in my nose for most of the night, despite a shower till the hot water ran out, and the last of your shower gel. It’s stuck up in my sinuses, still here when I wake. Must be a brain smell. Not really in my nose, just in my head.

It’s horrible, this musky, scalpy, thick smell of a living person’s filth. It’s a relief.

I lean down and bury my face in Splints’s furry back. He lifts his head and cracks me with his skull. I take the cue and roll off the couch.

The kitchen’s dusty. There’re crumbs on the counter from last night’s ham and cheese toastie. Splinter’s missed some dried food that’s rolled over near the bin. I sniff. The bin needs emptying. It’s 8:35. I wipe the bench, sweep the floor, pull on my uniform and kick Splints outside for a quick wee. I don’t look at the length of the grass out the back. I’m not ready to deal with that.

Breakfast. I grab a banana. I wait for Splints to do his thing and then lock him in and head for the door. The gas bill’s sitting on the table, next to the pages of practice signatures. I pick it up. The envelope’s tinted pink—I know what that means. The shadow-rat gives me a nip and I drop the bill back on the table. I’ll deal with it after school.

I MANAGE A fairly normal day. No unwanted attention. I do well on a math quiz. I get home unbothered by that annoying kid Oscar. I clean the kitchen. The house is heavy and silent. You would have had music or the TV on; you’d talk while we cooked dinner. I’d listen to you replaying arguments with people who weren’t here. Even your silent was noisy. You’d sigh, tap things, breathe. Whisper my ear with your finger as you walked past. There was always something. You moving around, living; the sound-print of someone else existing nearby. I could pretend you were just in the next room if it wasn’t for the silence.