By the time I leave my bedroom, the light’s out under Cassie’s door, Opal’s come home, and Floyd’s downstairs with her. He won’t tell her what happened. He usually lays into me when she’s nowhere around, and if he slips up, she turns a blind eye. Probably thinks I deserve it.

I take some Advil and go back to my room. My headphones are broken or I’d listen to some music. A good dose of AC/DC— that’s what I need.

You know their song, “Stiff Upper Lip”?

2.2 [heavyweight]

USUAL SETUP the next morning, with Floyd at work and Opal off selling hope and harmony. They’re going out for supper, so they won’t be back until tonight sometime. Cassie is in the kitchen feeding Cheerios to Rover, scowling at him as she jams the cereal in his face. “You better eat your breakfast,” she’s saying, “or you’ll get a beating.” Then she shakes him so hard that Cheerios fly off the table to the floor.

Ever since she started having nightscares, I’ve done my best to keep her from seeing the crap that goes on in this house. My best obviously isn’t good enough.

“Cassie,” I say, making her jump, “don’t be mean to Rover.”

“He’s being bad.” Another shake, Rover’s head flopping up and down.

“Why don’t you eat some Cheerios? Show him how.”

“Don’t want to.” Oh man. “How about I scramble an egg? You like scrambled eggs.”

I bend over to find the frying pan, wishing the Advil I just swallowed would kick in. Wishing I didn’t feel Cassie tugging at my ankles day and night. “Responsibility” has to be the heaviest word in the dictionary.

I wasn’t quite ten when Opal found out she was pregnant. The ruckus she made you’d have thought she had a brain tumor. That’s how all three of us discovered her healing powers didn’t work when she was the one who needed them.

I sometimes wonder if she kicked up the same fuss before I was born.

Four years ago. Cassie is six weeks old. Opal sashays into the living room one afternoon and dumps baby plus bottle in my lap. “You feed her,” she says, “I’m going out.”

“No way! She’s too young.”

Opal’s already in the kitchen. As she swings her head around, her earrings bump her neck, silver chains studded with bits of colored glass. “All you have to do is feed her and put her back in the crib.”

“But—“

“Stop whining!”

“You can’t leave me alone with her.”