The door to her room opened. Dad leaned in and said something, and she hurried to pull her headphones down, hands wrapped around them, with fingers covering the parts where the sound came out.

Dad looked annoyed.

“Dinner is in a few minutes,” he said.

She nodded.

“You’re doing homework?”

She nodded again.

He stepped into the room, and she looked down, sliding the book across her desk.

“Division. Do I need to check your work?”

She shook her head.

“Speak up, Kanzi. You have a voice. Use it.”

“No. I did today’s homework already. I was doing some work from later in the book.”

“Wash your hands and get ready for dinner.”

She nodded.

He went back toward the kitchen, and his movement was marked by a waft of cigarette smoke, pungent. It smelled better than dinner.

More bad feelings squirmed through her belly.

She tore the notebook paper out of the pad, then popped open her binder, slotting it in at the end. It was easier to stay in her room and be quiet, and better still if she was doing homework, because it was hard for anyone to complain about her doing her homework. There wasn’t enough work to do to fill whole afternoons after school and before bed, so she’d started to work ahead. A lot of it was dull or confusing, but after a while, she’d started to make a game of it. It was her hope that she could finish the entire third grade math textbook before Christmas.

Binder closed. Books put away in her bag for school tomorrow. She turned her music and television off, then turned off the light in her room.

The bathroom was empty, the coast clear. She closed and locked the door, then got one of the metal wicker baskets from the shelf, moving the hand towels inside to the edge of the counter before putting the basket down upside-down on the bathroom floor. It worked like a stepping stool, giving her the height she needed to reach the taps, which was harder to do since the new counter and sink Mom and Dad had put in.

Sleeves pushed up, hands thoroughly washed and dried, sleeves rolled down. Towels went back in the basket, which was dusted off before it went back on the shelf.

Then, because she was looking for reasons to delay sitting down to dinner, she gave the bathroom what Mom called a once-over. She saw the glint of drops of water on the counter, hurried over to the basket to get one of the hand towels, and dabbed them up before folding the towel back up and putting it in the basket.

Her nose wrinkled as she walked down the hall, past the kitchen, and through the corner of the living room to the dining room. She made sure nobody saw.