“Gross,” Warren said. “What did you find?”

“Just a piece of paper. Get the broom, for chrissakes.”

“It’s probably that guy’s will. He left his penis art to his secret porn buddy.”

“Warren, will you sweep the goddam floor already? God, you’ve spent too much time with your father.”

He pushed the broom through the pile of moths, but watched me as I stuck my thumb under the envelope flap and pulled the old glue apart. A cloud of dust danced in the sunlight as I unfolded the letter.

My heart hammered so hard, I thought it might scatter the dust motes.

7/11/2001

Susan,

Don’t break the glass.

And that was it.

“Warren, did you put this up there?”

“What?”

“Did you put this note up in the ceiling?”

“And bury it in bugs? No. Why, what does it say?”

I handed him the paper.

“It’s for you?”

“Look at the date.”

“My birthday?”

“Now, tell me you didn’t put it up there.”

“Mom—I didn’t. Explain how I could have possibly done that.”

“I don’t know, but it would be a lot more convincing if you’d remembered to put the chair back. Clean up this mess.”

I left him with the broom, the moths, and that infernal light.

***

By the afternoon, the flickering had stopped.

“I guess I must have knocked something loose.”

Warren pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead. He looked up at the dark hole, and then out at the trees—the last bit of sun glowing from behind their bristles. “This house creeps me out,” he said.

It was hard to breathe as deeply as I needed to. “I’m sorry, honey. But you’ll get used to it. It’s a good place for us, for now.”

“I want to sleep with my light on, but it’s like the whole forest can see me. Like whoever was walking around is watching me.”

I reached across the table for his hand, but he pulled it back. Dropped it into his lap. “Mom?”

“What, sweetie?”

“I want to go back to Dad’s.”

And it was like all the windows fell in on me, like every one of those wires had been alive and angry, like I’d taken them into my mouth and chewed. I kept that feeling between my teeth—held it in my mouth to keep it from welling up in my eyes.

“Can you give it a week, please?”

He looked at me—those wide hazel eyes disappearing into black circles as the last of our light faded, and he was four years old again, reading my face for an answer, all those times I didn’t have one. No excuses. Only apologies. He nodded, and sulked away to his room.