It’s a magazine cover. The top magazine on the pile they keep under the stairs.

“Did you think…” Dad starts. Then he laughs too. Even as he’s catching his breath. “Holy shit, Nat. You scared me bad.”

Who knew? Who knew there’d be moments in trauma when you could still heartily, full-bodied laugh?

“Scared you?” she says. “I think I just lost some weight.”

Dad takes the rag, reaches under the stairs, and places it over the top magazine.

No more face.

Thanks, Dad.

“There,” he says. But he still eyes it like it could come to life. And they both give it one more little laugh. A little less body this time.

Jesus, Natasha thinks. There’s almost something comforting about trauma. Like you finally know how bad a thing can get.

“I’m gonna eat,” she says. “You want anything?”

“No. Thanks. I don’t wanna mess with my momentum.”

“Don’t want a three-legged sandwich?”

Dad smiles. Natasha heads to the kitchen and thinks how there’s you, and there’s your reality, and then…this invader. This bad thing that demands entrance into your world. And you say no because there isn’t enough room inside yourself for this bad thing. Where would it fit? But after you close the door on it you realize it’s already sitting on the couch.

Already in.

She opens the fridge, decides she’s not hungry after all. She shuts the door and hears that soft thud again. Was it the refrigerator door? She tests it. No, she doesn’t think so.

She looks up.

Ah yes. There it is again.

She was right the first time. Upstairs. Down the hall.

She walks to the foot of the steps.

“Mom?”

Mom has trauma of her own. Maybe everyone does. Maybe every living thing on Earth has some trauma they didn’t invite inside.

“Mom?”

She walks through the living room, goes to the front windows, checks the two police cars in the drive. Each car has two officers. That’s four cops. Watching her house. Four cops at each of the ballers’ homes. Jesus.

An officer looks her way, smiles. Waves.

Natasha waves back. Feels weird. As if, by making contact with someone other than her family, other than those already deeply entrenched in her daily, agreed-upon reality, she’s admitting something she’s not ready to admit.

Someone has to be next.

She checks her phone. No response from Kit. Kit who called 911 on herself. That was a big deal back when that happened. It was the first time Natasha heard of someone her age having troubles. She thought it meant Kit was crazy. Called an ambulance on herself. Not because she broke a bone but because she was having broken thoughts.

Either way, Kit or no Kit, the others aren’t chatting either. She guesses everyone wants to shut up for a second. Let the police do their work. Let’s wait. Let’s shut up and—

Another soft thud from above.

Natasha climbs the steps.

“Mom,” she says. “Are you hanging pictures, for fuck’s sake? You mixing drinks in a blender?”