I planted my feet and heaved the bookcase backward, wrenching it free from her grasp. She scratched at its sides, hobbling after it, trying in vain to reclaim some purchase. After a sloppy lunge, she dropped to the floor, and I froze in horror as I braced for the sound of her hip shattering. But almost immediately she was on all fours, scrabbling at me fast. Her face was ferocious and determined and she was making a beeline for my ankle, which for a deranged instant I thought she was actually planning to bite. But instead she swerved left, crawling into the bookcase. It was still lying on its side, so she wedged herself between two shelves, curling into a semi-fetal position. I tried to keep dragging it, but it was too heavy. ‘Oh, I hope you’re happy with yourself,’ I hissed at her. ‘I hope you’re truly comfortable in there!’ She didn’t respond. I imagined her smiling, smugly hugging her knees, like some hippie chained to a tree. Invigorated with hatred, I hunkered down over the frame and tugged, exerting my entire body against her weight. The bookcase jerked backward, an inch across the floor. I kept at it. In this way, inch by inch, I managed to haul her down the hall. She held tight to the shelves, her knuckles bloodless. And even after the bookcase had come to a halt—safely back in my bedroom—she refused to crawl out.

I wouldn’t allow her to win this way—not by attrition, not just by sitting in there until I grew bored and quit. If she wouldn’t come out on her own, I’d smoke her out. And so, pitilessly, I began rocking the bookcase, teetering it from side to side like a carnival ride. Whenever it listed floor-ward her frail arm shot out as a buttress, palming the ground to keep her from sliding free. I rocked it at more acute angles, so that she’d have to support more and more of her weight; then I stopped abruptly, letting the structure jolt. I heard her thud heavily against the backboard. She was too proud to scream. I began beating on the bookcase. For five straight minutes I drummed a tattoo with both hands, repeating ‘Get out, get out’ in rhythm with the beats. I kneed the side of the frame, knowing she’d feel the shudder all around her. I berated her. How long, I asked evilly, did she think she could stay in there, with her old woman’s bladder? I could wait all night. I told her she was being childish. I told her she was acting like a child. For someone who had lectured me on maturity, I said, she sure was behaving like an infant. Is this how she’d raised her son? I asked. Crawling into bookcases until she got her way? Still too proud to respond, she remained silent. I goaded her: Is it? Is it? Is this how she’d raised her son? Finally she shrieked back at me. I can’t replicate the shriek. It was prolonged and high-pitched and hateful. But what she screamed was: ‘MY SON IS DEAD!’