“Poison, Rosie! Everywhere. They cover up house, every things. We cannot stay here. It’s FDA legal poison! We go away for three days, mandatory. I already talk to Quellie Soo. She says we staying at her house.”

“No way am I staying in some stranger’s house. Have you told Mira any of this?”

“Notchet. She sleeping.”

“At this hour?”

“She has period, same like me, very tired. Do not disturb.”

“I’m positive both Mira and I won’t want to stay at Quellie Soo’s. Couldn’t we go to a hotel or something?”

“Hotel expensive, Rosie.”

“I didn’t mean the Ritz. I meant, like, Slumber Inn.”

“Okay, I ask Quellie. I ask.”

At long last, her mother went away. Rosemary waited till her footsteps subsided and the electronic hum of the TV in the den had developed its steady tinniness. Then she made for Mira’s door.

It was unlocked, and she stepped right into the darkness.

“Mira?”

In the moonlight, she made out her sister’s silhouette on the bed—flat on her back, hands clasped over her heart like Snow White in her glass coffin. The chiffon drapes were billowing slightly, which was strange because all the windows were shut.

“Mira, are you asleep?”

A small, mournful voice—more escaping air than voice—answered:

“Not really . . .”

On any other day, Rosemary might have guessed Mira was pulling her leg, cackling secretly under her comforter. Not tonight. She wanted to embrace her baby sister but feared encountering chilly, sepulchral flesh.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“She locked me in the attic . . .” Her voice was hoarse. “She hates me. She always has.”

Rosemary was queasy with guilt. She hadn’t even included Mira in her adoption request to Mr. Z. In her selfish pursuit to be understood by boys, by men, by everybody else, she’d completely forgotten her true best friend.

“I’m so sorry, Mira. I’m so sorry I wasn’t around.” She swallowed back her tears. “I won’t let it happen again, I swear. No matter what happens, everything will be fine if we stick together.” She reached out for Mira’s hand, which turned out to be feverish, and not at all cold. “You’re my little Gas Rat.”

Mira tried to laugh but instead hacked a chesty dry cough and it sounded as hollow as a forgotten room in an old house. Its severity spooked the both of them.

“Want some water?”

The shadow shook its head.

“What were you doing in the attic anyway?”

“Nothing . . .”

“You mustn’t provoke her. I know it’s hard but, please, we cannot provoke her.”

Mira kept quiet.

“Why are your hands clasped like that?”

“I was praying . . .”

“You don’t have to do that. You know it doesn’t work.”