It was slow, with one hand keeping the bandage and towel in place, but she cleared the table. All the food went together, and she put it in tupperware, before putting the tupperware in the fridge. She cleaned up the pots and bowls as best as she could with everything stuck on.

The sound of a car outside made her stop, frozen in worry.

Not them. She carried on. Everything put away, but the sink was hard to clean things. She took things to the bathroom, so she could use the bath and shower spray on really hot. It worked, even though it meant a lot of trips.

Everything she washed went on the drying rack. More things went away, as best as she could figure. She’d had to do this before, though it hadn’t been quite this messy or even a hundred millionth as smelly.

On one of her trips, she stopped, and she stared down at the trail of dots on the floor. She checked, and saw that even with the towel and bandage pressed down, the blood had run down her arm to her elbow, dripping off the point. There was some on her clothes.

The blood was scary—almost worse to have to face than the dinner.

She made herself fix it. Wet towels from the basket in the bathroom. The blood didn’t get soaked up so much as it streaked, and more kept dripping down. She used a new towel to stop it.

It was a feeling like drowning. First being cornered, now drowning.

She cleaned everything up as best as she could, her heart pounding, head swimming, and then went to her room to get herself ready for bed.

She changed into the pyjamas with the ducks, brushed her hair twenty times on each side with the brush, and retreated to bed, every light off, covers pulled tight around her.

The house was quiet. The only sounds were inexplicable creaks and grunts from the house itself, a drip of water from one of the sinks.

Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Her face wouldn’t stop hurting, even as she pressed the towel hard against it.

Sleep wasn’t a possibility. Her normal bedtime was nine, and it was only eight, according to the clock on the wall. She watched the hands of the clock.

When the clock was close to nine, she heard another car. She tensed.

This car pulled into the driveway. It was them.

Her heartbeat raced. She pulled tight at the covers, paralyzed, and closed her eyes. If she pretended to be asleep—

Her mother’s voice was faint. Something about the mess on the floors.

The volume rose, as if one thing after another was being found, each making things worse. Each made her draw tighter and tighter into herself.

“The towels!” her mother’s voice wasn’t that far way. The bathroom was only a few steps from Kanzi’s bedroom door.