They were on the outside, keeping someone in.

3

“They’ve taken it off the website,” Mum says, looking up from her phone.

“I should hope so,” says Jay. “We own it.”

“Still, it’s nice that it’s official.”

Jay stares at the piles of boxes, then jangles the house keys. “It’s been official for a while.” But Mum’s not listening. She’s spent so long looking at the place online that she can’t stop.

Although we finally got our “dream home,” no one seems that happy. Mum prefers the tidy house in the pictures, Jay looks exhausted from shifting all our stuff, and my stepsister, Nia, is already moaning about reception and how long it’ll take to get, like, anywhere.

New house, same life. Except that’s not totally true, because this life is a lot better than our old one, before Mum met Jay.

“We should leave the unpacking until tomorrow,” he says, and, even though Mum looks disappointed, she agrees.

Then we all sit in the gaps between the boxes and eat takeout pizza, pretending this isn’t a massive anticlimax. Mum looks at her photos, the ones she took when we visited to measure, and Jay doesn’t try to stop her because that’s how arguments start. Instead, he looks at me and says, “So…what do you think?”

“There are holes in the doors,” I say. “It looks like they locked people in.”

Jay doesn’t respond like I want him to. He just says, “We’ll fix that when we decorate.”

He does that a lot—asks questions and ignores answers. If he could pick a stepson, he wouldn’t be anything like me. Sometimes I catch him giving me the look, and I know what he’s thinking. Why can’t he be like every other person? Why does he have to worry so much and say weird things? It could be worse, because some men get angry if you’re different. Jay just changes the subject.

“When are we getting Wi-Fi?” Nia asks. Because this is far more important, Mum puts her phone down, and the three of them discuss it while I go upstairs.

The doors are brown with swirls and dark knots, but I don’t see the patterns anymore.

I only see the holes.

4

I listen to music until Mum comes in and says, “We’re going to bed, now, if you want to…you know.”

I nod, but don’t reply. It’s better when she doesn’t say it out loud.

She doesn’t ask if I’m okay. We just stare at each other while I watch her settle on a suitable smile. When it comes out, it’s awkward and sags at the edges, but at least she tried.

Jay comes up behind her and says, “Good night, mate. You cool?”

I’m most certainly not. But I sigh and say, “Yep.”

“Okay, then. See you tomorrow.”