Less than an hour after the post went live, it had over five thousand views.

The comments section exploded.

"Mr. and Mrs. Chavez are absolute saints. Who in this day and age would adopt a terminally ill orphan?"

"Libby sounds like such a good girl. She's so lucky to have been born into your family."

"This is what community spirit looks like! Someone nominate them for the Family of the Year award!"

Dad scrolled through the comments, his grin stretching wider with every one.

Mom walked over with a cup of tea and leaned in to look at the screen.

"Honey, don't reply to too many. It'll look calculated."

Dad grunted in acknowledgment.

"As for Libby, let her cool off one more night."

Mom nodded.

I floated above their heads, watching all of it.

Outside the window, snow fell in thick curtains.

The entire town was cheering for "the most loving parents in the world."

And the carbon monoxide concentration inside their biological daughter's room was enough to kill.

The day after the surgery was canceled, Mom got a sales call from an educational consultancy.

After she hung up, she turned to Dad. "There's a top-tier child trauma therapist. One-on-one sessions, twelve hundred dollars an hour. I think it'd be perfect for Harry."

Dad thought it over.

"Sign him up."

"What about Libby's surgery..."

Mom hesitated.

"We already got the refund on the transplant fees. What's the rush? We'll reschedule after the holidays. Just buy her one of those secondhand harmonicas so she doesn't think we're playing favorites."

Harry came bounding out of his new bedroom—the sun-facing master suite that had originally been mine.

When I was moved into this windowless spare room, Mom's exact words had been:

"Harry has PTSD. He needs plenty of sunlight and open space. You're the big sister. Make the sacrifice."

So I did.

I gave up the room. I gave up the oxygen concentrator. I gave up the asthma inhaler. And finally, I gave up the surgery that was supposed to keep me alive.

Harry tugged at Mom's sleeve, swinging it back and forth.

"Mommy, Mommy, is sissy still in there throwing a tantrum?"

Mom slid a sheet of paper under the door.

I knew exactly what was on it.

Last night, Mom had told me to sign a "Be Grateful to Your Brother" pledge. When I refused, she locked me in.

"Libby, I reprinted a fresh copy of the pledge for you. Whenever you're ready to come out and sign it, just say the word. I'm not forcing you, but think about how pitiful Harry is. His birth parents are gone. Do you really have the heart to make him sad?"

No sound came from behind the door.

She sighed, then turned and cupped Harry's face in her hands.

"She's playing dead again. Throwing her little protest."

Dad was directing two delivery men as they hauled something into the living room.

They pried open the massive crate. Inside was an imported grand piano.

Walnut finish. Ninety-eight thousand dollars.

Harry shrieked and threw himself at the keys, hammering out a storm of ear-splitting noise that filled the entire apartment.

Mom crouched down beside him, her face melting with adoration as she wiped his hands.

"Gently, sweetheart. Don't hurt your fingers."

Dad was off to the side, tearing open another package. He pulled out a box of cough syrup and a rechargeable hand warmer.

The cheapest kind available. Ten bucks with free shipping.

"Put these by her door later."

He set them on the shoe rack without a second glance.

"If she's willing to sign and come out, she can have them."

Harry suddenly stopped playing. He tilted his head and stared at my bedroom door.

"Mommy, sissy's room doesn't even have any air getting in. Won't she get all cooked like a piece of meat?"

Mom peeled an orange segment and popped it into his mouth.

"Don't be silly. Your sister's in there meditating and reflecting on her behavior. Once she's done being sorry, she'll come out on her own."

Harry chewed the orange, mumbling through a full mouth:

"Then how come she hasn't made a single sound?"

"Being stubborn, as usual."

Terence didn't even look up. He was busy hanging a banner on the wall.

The banner was a gift from Maplewood Orphanage, embroidered with four gilded words: Boundless Love.

He stepped back two paces, admired it with satisfaction, then pulled out his phone and snapped a photo.

The living room was a picture of warmth and prosperity: the grand piano, the commendation banner, brand-new space heaters.

Harrison was draped over the piano bench, grinning ear to ear.

On the other side of the wall, in the second bedroom, the air had grown so foul that not even a fly could survive in it.

The curled-up body inside was coated in a layer of black grime. In that sealed, windowless space, her body temperature was dropping, degree by degree.

No one knew. No one wanted to know.

The next morning, my mother was up before dawn for the first time in memory.

Not for me.

Director Cara Finch from Maplewood Orphanage was coming for a home visit. It was the first annual check-in since the adoption.

Mom had been cooking since five a.m. The dining table was buried under a feast fit for a holiday spread.

Braised pork shoulder. Sweet-and-sour sea bass. Mushroom chicken stew. The whole apartment smelled incredible.

On the kitchen counter, shoved into the corner, sat a blackened aluminum lunchbox.

Inside were leftover vegetable scraps and watered-down soup from two nights ago. Already sour.

That was mine.

Director Finch was a heavyset woman in her fifties. The moment she walked through the door and took in the scene, her eyes welled up.

"Mr. Chavez, in twenty years running the orphanage, I've never seen a family treat a child the way you treat Harrison. Not once."

Terence waved her off with practiced humility.

"It's only right. Harrison is our own flesh and blood, as far as we're concerned."

Harrison performed a piano piece he'd learned two days ago. He butchered it completely, but Director Finch led the applause.

Riding the warm atmosphere, Mom stood and walked to my bedroom door.

Her expression carried a hint of tenderness.

"Sweetheart, listen to how lively it is out here. I know you love your brother so much that you gave up your room for him, but you still need to eat. Come say hello to Ms. Finch, okay?"

She raised her voice deliberately so everyone in the living room could hear.

From behind the door, nothing. Not a sound.

Director Finch reached over and patted Mom's shoulder.

"Your older daughter sounds like a good kid too."

"She is. Just headstrong."

Terence sighed on cue from the side.

"Teenage girls get jealous easily. She's been sulking ever since her brother arrived. Nothing we say gets through. Last night she threw a fit and locked herself in her room. She still won't come out."

"Oh, that's nothing. You two are doing more than enough."

After the director left, Mom went back to the table to clear the dishes.

Terence's phone was buzzing nonstop in the residents' group chat.

The neighbor from the floor below had sent a long voice message.

"Mr. Chavez, is something leaking in your apartment? Black water's been dripping from my bathroom ceiling since last night, and the whole place reeks like something's burning. What is going on up there?"

Terence typed back immediately.

"So sorry about that, everyone. My older daughter was in a bad mood and burned some scrap paper in her room to blow off steam. I'm really sorry. I'll take care of it right away."

The chat went quiet for a beat. Then the messages came flooding in.

"Burning paper? Mr. Chavez, you're way too soft on that girl!"

"Is your older daughter mentally ill or something? You adopt a little brother and she loses it like this?"

"You and your wife are saints for putting up with that. In my house, she'd have gotten a beating."

Terence replied to each message with apologies.

"It's our fault as parents. We haven't raised her right. Tomorrow I'll send everyone a gift card as an apology, and I'll treat Mrs. Chen to coffee."

Mom said nothing. She just wrinkled her nose.

The smell was getting worse.

A burnt, acrid stench laced with something else entirely was seeping through the cracks around the door and the gaps in the unsealed pipes, creeping into the living room.

Harrison burst out of his room, hand clamped over his nose. He kicked the bottle of cough syrup sitting outside the door and sent it flying.

Glass shattered. The dark liquid pooled across the floor.

"It reeks! Did she poop in there and smear it on the walls?"

"Gross, gross, gross!"

He squatted down and dry-heaved twice, then scrambled to the window and gulped in mouthfuls of fresh air.

Sally glanced at the black water seeping through the crack under the door.

"Honey, that smell isn't right."

Terence walked over and leaned in to sniff. His brow furrowed, then smoothed out just as quickly.

"That coal stove burns cheap loose coal. Of course it stinks. The ash probably got soaked in water and started rotting."

He knocked twice on the door.

"Libby, put out the coal stove."

No response.

"Libby?"

Nothing.

Sally lowered her voice. "Maybe we should open the door and check?"

Terence pulled the handle. It didn't budge.

Harrison had locked it from the outside. But yesterday, he'd also sealed the entire doorframe with expanding foam sealant, plugging up even the keyhole.

"We'll need someone to come take it apart."

Terence sighed.

"It's the weekend. Locksmiths are hard to book."

He picked up his phone and scrolled through a few numbers.

"Earliest anyone can come is tonight."

Sally hesitated.

"Then... why don't we go get some fresh air first? The community charity awards ceremony is at two this afternoon. We can take Harry to pick up the trophy."

She walked to the entryway console, peeled off a sticky note, and hunched over the counter to scrawl a crooked line of words.

She stuck it on my door.

"Be good, Libby. Mommy's taking your brother out and will be right back. There's cough syrup and a hand warmer by the door. If you're hungry, come out and eat. Love, Mommy."

Before leaving, Terence took one last look at the door.

He pulled out his phone and dialed a locksmith.

"Hey, eight o'clock tonight. You'll want to bring a power saw. The doorframe's been sealed shut with expanding foam. It'll have to be forced open."

He hung up, took Harrison's hand, and they walked out the front door. Harrison held the little "Boundless Love" commendation banner high, bouncing with every step.

The deadbolt clicked behind them. The apartment fell completely silent.

At six that evening, the family of three came home.

Harrison had a gold badge pinned to his chest. Terence cradled a crystal trophy engraved with the words: Family of the Year — Terence Chavez & Sally Fox.

The key slid into the deadbolt. The moment the door swung open, a wall of stench hit them.

Harrison doubled over on the spot and vomited.

Sally pressed her sleeve over her nose and mouth. "What is that smell?"

Terence strode inside, face twisted. The air purifier in the living room had its indicator light blazing an angry, deep red. A second later it beeped once and shut itself off — the toxic gas concentration had exceeded its limit.

He pounded on my bedroom door twice.

"Libby! What the hell are you doing in there? Look at what you've done to this house!"

He pounded harder.

"Libby, do you even know that your father won the Family of the Year trophy today? You should be proud of this family! Instead you're holed up in that rat's nest throwing a tantrum! I should make you look at this trophy and learn what it means to be a decent human being!"

Still nothing.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

On the other side stood Officer Kevin Lawrence and two uniformed inspectors from the Environmental Health Department.

"Mr. Chavez, I'm real sorry to bother you. From yesterday to now, we've gotten twenty-three complaints from this building alone. Some folks say black water's dripping through their ceiling. Others say toxic fumes are coming through the ventilation ducts. Just a little while ago, old Mrs. Li on the third floor called 911 — said she suspects there's a gas leak in your apartment."