Now Josie was even more annoyed. She did not want to be making dioramas for second-grade book reports; she did not want to be awaiting his arrival; she did not want to be here at all. Still, it wasn’t the here of the apartment, or even the glue sticks and animal stickers that she was recoiling from, it was the other stuff. At first she had thought perhaps it was just residual muck exorcising its way from her head, but it came back in an onslaught. There wasn’t a single day in the last two weeks that she hadn’t felt the sharp tip of a fantasy chiseling its way to the surface. There were times she could ward it off, force herself to think of grocery lists and unreturned library books, but lately it was becoming more difficult. At night, she would end up locked in the bathroom imagining herself writhing under some anonymous whip, and in the morning she’d be afraid to look at Phillip, afraid he could read her, and afraid she would tell. But she hadn’t told yet, and he didn’t even seem to notice, and despite the fact that this was what she wanted, it also made her angry. How could he not see all that darkness seeping through her, corrosive and blistering? It made her snap at him and hate herself.

She heard the front door open and Katie ran to meet Phillip. Katie giggled, then shrieked, and she knew Phillip had scooped her up in his arms. She stood and walked down the hall.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.” He set Katie on the floor, and she gripped his leg.

“Again, Daddy,” she said.

“Not right now. We can play later. Go color a picture for me.”

“No,” she said.

“You need to finish your diorama,” Josie said. “Do that and you can use the hair ribbon.”

“Really?” Katie asked.

“Yes.”

Katie ran into the kitchen, and Josie looked down at the floor. Deep in the carpet was a perfectly round cigarette burn from the tenants before, and she covered and uncovered it with her big toe. She knew he was waiting for an apology from this morning, but offering him one seemed like bandaging a cut knee when she knew the whole leg would have to go.

“What’s going on with you?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know.” It was an impulsive answer, and after she said it, she wished she could take it back. She did know, and to deny it was as silly as thinking that by leaving Devesh, she could also leave the familiar prickly place she had spent much of her life occupying.

“Well … something’s going on, and if you don’t tell me, we can’t do anything about it.”

“It’s not you,” she said.

“Good answer,” he scoffed.