3: 3

The moon was already high before Mom came home with Florence.

The door opened and the laughter poured in ahead of them. Florence had a glowing headband on, all lit up, and one of those glow-stick wands from the concert in her hand, her little face flushed pink as she hummed a song she'd just learned.

Mom was smiling too, which didn't happen often, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes smoothed out, Florence's jacket in one hand and an empty popcorn bucket in the other.

"Did you have fun today?"

"Yeah! I want to go again next time!"

But in the next second, something seemed to yank hard at Mom's face, and it dropped cold all at once.

Florence leaned in, spotted the smear of cream on the floor at a glance, then looked back up at Mom's face.

There was a familiar, testing note in her voice.

"Mom, today is Beryl's birthday, after all… do you think she's holding a grudge against us?"

"But throwing the cake on the floor, that's wasting food. That's a merit deduction."

Mom lifted her eyes from the cream and stared coldly toward my bedroom. Still no sound from in there.

Then her voice filled, layer by layer, with disappointment and anger.

"I've really been too good to you."

"I dock you a few merits and you have the nerve to go on a hunger strike? Fine, if you've got the guts, keep not eating. See if you starve yourself to death!"

No one answered her.

She waited a few seconds, gave a cold snort, and turned away.

"Come on, Florence, no more sulking to watch. Mom will make you something good."

"Okay!"

Florence answered sweetly and followed her toward the kitchen.

As she passed the table, she lifted one little foot and gave the lemon slice that had rolled into the corner a small kick, then went skipping after Mom.

The living room went quiet again.

I crouched where I was, looking at the cream on the floor, then at the light coming on in the kitchen.

The pan started to sizzle, and the smell drifted out slowly, scrambled eggs and scallions, warm and rich, the smell of the living world.

I drifted to the kitchen doorway. Mom had her back to me, tossing the pan with quick, practiced flicks, Florence standing at her leg with her face turned up, waiting to be fed.

Mom glanced down at her, lifted a piece of egg, blew on it, and fed it into her mouth.

I leaned against the doorframe and watched, quietly.

Mom, do you know? Florence doesn't lose any merits for this piece of egg. She doesn't have to trade anyone else's merits for it either.

All she has to do is stand at your leg and tip her face up, and she gets it.

And me, I could kneel before the shrine and bow a hundred times and still not earn a single bite.

But saying all this now, it doesn't really mean anything anymore.

Mom lifted another piece of egg and set it, without thinking, in the empty bowl beside her.

I froze for a moment before it hit me. That one was set aside for me.

She'd told me to starve, and she still left me a share.

I suddenly wanted to laugh a little, and to cry a little.

Mom, thank you for saving me this meal.

But, forgive me.

I'm afraid I'll never get to eat your cooking again.

4: 4

In the days that followed, my mother never said my name once.

The smell in the apartment first turned obvious on the fifth day.

At the start it was only the faintest thread of something, and my mother assumed the trash hadn't been taken out. She sent my sister to carry the kitchen bin down.

But even with the trash gone, the smell stayed, like an invisible snake, coiling through the rooms in thin, drifting strands.

"Is the drain clogged?"

She bent over the sink and sniffed, then crouched by the floor drain and sniffed there too.

Florence came running in from the living room, pinching her nose, her little face screwed up.

"Mom, it stinks in here. Like there's a dead rat."

My mother straightened, and without meaning to her eyes drifted toward my bedroom door.

That door had been shut for half a month now, a dusty seam of shadow packed under it.

She wiped her hands on her apron, hesitated, then walked over and knocked twice.

"Beryl?"

No answer.

She knocked twice more, harder.

"Beryl! Do you hear me? Is something dead in your room? Get out here and clean it up!"

Still, only dead silence.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned and stalked off, furious.

"Fine, leave her."

"If it stinks, she brought it on herself. When she can't stand it anymore, she'll come out on her own!"

But before I came out, the neighbors came first.

Marjorie Chavez was the first at the door.

"Mrs. Fox, my husband said the smell coming from your place... it isn't right. Won't you go check on Beryl's room?"

"She's sulking, locked herself in, won't see anyone. Don't go sticking your nose in."

"Sulking? What kind of sulk lasts half a month? What kind of sulk keeps a kid out of school? Mrs. Fox, just open the door and let me look. If Beryl's fine, I'll leave right away."

"Is she my daughter, or yours?"

My mother's voice went cold.

Marjorie opened her mouth, and in the end said nothing.

She stepped back, looked at the shut bedroom door, then at my mother, and turned and went down the stairs.

Half an hour later, the knocking came again.

This time it was three people.

Officer Abraham James from the community station, the district's auxiliary officer, Evelyn Dickerson, and Marjorie standing behind them.

My mother opened the door, and when she saw the group her face went from annoyance to wariness.

"Ms. Fox, someone reported that your older daughter hasn't left the apartment in a long time."

"We're just here to check on the situation."

"What's there to check?"

"My daughter is fine. She's throwing a fit at me, that's all. What kid doesn't fight with their parents? Is that against the law now?"

Abraham didn't take the bait of an argument.

Behind him, Officer Dickerson tilted her head slightly, her gaze settling on the shut door deep in the living room.

A dim seam of shadow was packed under it, as if something had lain there a long time.

Abraham drew his eyes back, his voice still unhurried.

"Then could she come out and see us? Just once. It would put our minds at ease."

My mother glanced back at the door, her tone thick with impatience.

"Beryl, do you hear me? The officers are at the door now. Get out here!"

But there was still no sound from inside.

"Beryl!"

She strode to the bedroom door and started pounding on it, her palm slamming against the wood, slap after slap, until dust shook loose from the frame.

"Do you hear me? Quit playing mute!"

The door boomed under her hand. Nothing inside.

"Where's the key?"

She whipped around and screamed at Florence, her voice already cracked out of shape.

"Mom, she's obviously acting again."

"My classmate's older sister does the same thing. One scolding and she plays dead, then waits for the adults to go soft so she can hit them up for money—"

"Shut up! Give me the key!"

Florence froze for a second.

She had never heard her mother speak to her in that tone.

Then she pouted, dug a key out of the TV cabinet drawer, and muttered as she handed it over, "What's the big deal..."

My mother snatched the key, jammed it into the lock, and turned it twice.

It wouldn't turn.

The door was bolted from the inside.

Her hand froze on the key, her whole body stalling for a second.

Then she let go of the key, stepped back half a pace, and kicked the door straight on.

The door was old, its hinges long since rusted.

One kick and the latch sprang free, the door slamming into the wall with a heavy, dull crash.

And then a smell carved deep into human instinct came pouring out of the dark.