Pushing eight-thirty. The last of my clean work clothes are gone and there’s nothing I can do about it. I have to borrow something of Lolly’s. I find myself tiptoeing as I cross the landing that separates my room and hers. She hated it when I went into her room. I didn’t see what the big deal was, but she caught me in there once borrowing socks and she turned and left all freaked out like she’d just caught me mixing up a cocktail of perfume and hand sanitizer. I came downstairs with an apology all ready but she’d gone and left one of her weird little notes. Something like, I’m happy to lend you anything you need but you really must ask. I love you.

She always said that. And she did, I guess. She just didn’t want me.

The carpet in her room is softer than in the rest of the house. Her bed is made tightly, like if Laura Ashley ran the army. Simple dark-wood bedside table with nothing on it but a Tiffany lamp, pretty stained-glass shade anchored in place with an iron base. In its single drawer are her reading glasses, her bible, a little pack of tissues, a pen and a pad with four or five pages ripped out, half a roll of cough drops, her checkbook (don’t get excited, it doesn’t work; I tried using it in February for the mortgage payment but the bank noticed the forged signature and sent the check back), a bottle of Valium, and three first-class stamps. After she made it clear I wasn’t to go into her room, I just had to, every chance I got. There are six Valium left. I take one and place the bottle exactly where it was.

Her closet smells of lavender and cedar. Everything is clean and pressed and hanging with similar garments in similar colors. This is probably better anyway; I always look grubby in my own clothes, even when they’re just washed, and Mrs. Tyburn looks at me differently when I look grubby. She never actually says anything, which kind of makes it worse.

I grab a red skirt that feels light enough for the weather and a black button-down shirt with sleeves I can roll up, and stop when I see the neat handwriting on the Post-it note on the closet door. Moths, do not leave open. I obey and dash back to my room, willing my feet not to press dents into her carpet.