Maybe I will do it to him, maybe he will do it to me. Out we will go like a little candle, leaving nothing but the peaceful dark. I kind of look forward to it. I am made with pain, for it, of it. I don’t have any other purpose, except to die.

He doesn’t think I can hear him when I’m down there, but I can. Or maybe he forgets I exist as soon as he closes the door. He’s such a dork with his dumb recipes. He didn’t invent the strawberry and vinegar sandwich thing. Even I know that, from the cooking network. I heard him talking to the cat about making a—what?—a feelings diary. SUCH a dork. But that’s how I got this idea, so I guess it was lucky. I’m not what they call book smart but I can make plans.

I found the tape recorder in the hall closet. It’s the only closet he doesn’t keep locked. I guess because there’s nothing in here, just piles of old newspapers. But then I found the machine, with the tape in and I thought, Here’s my chance.

I’m sitting here right now in the dark, so I can put everything back where I found it, if he comes. The tape is really old, with a yellow-and-black label. It had her writing on it. Notes. I didn’t listen to it; I know what’s on there. There’s a hot feeling in my tummy. I feel good about recording over her. I’m afraid, too, though.

I wonder what it’s like being a regular person—not being afraid all the time. Maybe everyone is afraid all the ti— Oh God, he’s coming n—

OLIVIA

I keep trying to record my thoughts but the whine is so loud. It has become a scream. My head feels like it will split. I can’t, I just can’t.

Oooeeeeeooo, metal dragging on metal, torture to my poor brain, my soft ears, my delicate bones … It’s a hammer of sound in my skull. So when the voice starts speaking, running underneath it, I don’t hear at first.

“Olivia,” says the voice. “Olivia.” It’s no louder than a butterfly’s wing. Oooooeeeeeooo.

Hello? I ease out from under the couch. Where are you? I ask, which is just as useless as me talking to the TV, I guess, because it’s definitely a ted saying my name, and they don’t understand.

“Olivia, in here.”

My heart is beating really loudly. I am on the edge of something. If I do this I can never give back the knowledge. Part of me wants to get back under the couch and forget about it. But I can’t. That wouldn’t be right.

I recognize the voice and where it’s coming from. I have never hoped harder to be wrong.