She hung her clothes on the clattering metal hangers, then carefully pulled off the black coat and dress. The coat was old, but the dress was new, bought from the store she worked at on the same afternoon she’d gotten the lawyer’s phone call. It had been expensive and would probably live out most of its life in storage, but she hadn’t owned anything that would be appropriate for a funeral.

As she hung the dress, she was faintly aware of her own movements in the mirror on the inside of the door. She glanced at her reflection.

White lines ran like rivers across her torso, threading from her collarbone, under her bra, and ending near her navel. They’d faded over time, but the scars would never fully vanish.

She remembered examining them at her nana’s house, back when she was a scrawny child with sharply jutting elbows and knees. They’d been brighter then, harsh against her skin, but not quite fresh at that point either. She’d run fingertips across the jagged, overlapping lines like she was tracing roads on a map.

They’d never made her self-conscious. She’d shown them off to her classmates—usually to shrieks or recoiling fascination—but now, as an adult, she mostly kept them hidden under high necklines. There wasn’t any shame involved. She just didn’t like the attention they drew. People would look concerned or ask questions, or very pointedly try not to stare at them. To Margot, though, they were no more noteworthy than her toes or her ears: just a body part that she thought about rarely.

The one time she’d asked her nana about them, she had gently explained that Margot had been attacked by a dog when she was very little. But there had been something in the explanation—some lack of conviction—that left Margot with the sense that her grandmother hadn’t had all the answers either.

This house has a dog door. She hung the dress absentmindedly. There were pieces of a puzzle there, but they didn’t fit together quite right. She’d never been afraid of dogs. Even the snarling ones with huge teeth had only ever looked like possible friends.

Maybe I forgot I was supposed to fear them, just like I forgot everything else.

She sighed, then shuddered. The room was cold. She wished she’d thought to bring some kind of heater.

Her creased flannel pajama set was thick at least. She pulled it on with trembling fingers, covering up the myriad lines. In the quiet between her breaths, she could hear soft taps at the window, telling her the spitting rain was back.

Margot turned out the light and crawled into the bed. The old sheets were clean, but she still moved gingerly, as though there might be something old and rotten at the foot of the bed, waiting for her bare toes to press against it.