Mama staggers back then lunges for the steak knife, holds it in front of her with shaking hands. “Get out of my house. Leave now!”

I clutch my snow globe, dive beneath the dining table, then watch their feet shuffle back and forth like a mad dance accompanied by animal grunts. They hit the edge of the table hard. Legs twist and they both fall. The steak knife hits the floor, clatters out of sight. Mama’s lips are pressed together, eyes clenched as the bigger woman straddles her, hands around her neck. There are scratches like tiger’s whiskers on Mama’s cheek.

“Mama,” I whimper, “I’m scared.”

Mama’s eyes open. She bucks her hips. The big lady falls, they roll over and over, and then everything stops and Mama slides sideways, her back to me. The lady’s face rises like the moon. She reaches toward me. Her glove is covered in glistening red paint.

I crawl farther back, out of reach. “Mama, please move,” I whisper. “I’m afraid.”

The woman scrambles to her feet, boots slap on the floor. The door opens then slams shut.

“Mama?”

“Come out, little bird.”

Trembling, I crawl from beneath the table and try to pull her up, but she’s too heavy. So we crab-walk toward the wall and she manages to sit. The steak knife sticks out of her chest. I reach for it but she moans when my fingers clasp the wooden handle.

“Mama?”

“Put your head in my lap, little bird, and I will tell you a bedtime story.”

I do, even though the front of her dress is hot and sticky, smells like pennies. And then I wait for the story as the meat she put in the oven burns then turns to a crisp. I sleep off and on. We talk each time I wake and she asks me to leave, find a neighbor, but I refuse. At some point I realize that Mama is very cold and drag a chair to the thermostat, climb up even though I’m dizzy, and turn the dial just like she does when there’s a chill in the air. Then I return to her side, lie down until finally . . .

Mama says, It’s almost time to go.

Can we play questions first?

Oui. What is something no one can ever take away from you?

She asks me this every night before bed. First a butterfly kiss, then the question. You, I say and feel her smile.

If you live looking behind you, what happens?

You trip and fall down. Her laugh is a warm breeze, like wind chimes.

Why is it dangerous to answer some questions?

This is a new one . . . I don’t know.

The truth has two edges.

I look up at her. I don’t understand.

You will. Little by little the bird makes her nest.

Mama?

A man and a woman are coming up the walk.

My heart is a knot tugged too tight.

Let them in.

I grip her legs. I don’t want to.