I stare back down at it. Thinking. My pencil taps against the kitchen table. Tap. Tap. Tap. A poem about hiding. I’m not a writer—if it weren’t for the dreams, I wouldn’t be a painter, either. Joshua thinks I’m creative; I should’ve corrected him. Maybe then I wouldn’t be distracted by this. &nbs...
Missy’s head appears through the square door in the center of the attic floor. It’s early, and dawn spills through the window. The past few days have been like that light, so swift and serene. I know it won’t last. “Fine.” Smiling in greeting, I set a basket of yarn and kn...
Marker lines sweep across her cheeks like whiskers. “Hey,” she says, “mind if I tag along?” I almost agree, but then I hear Mary’s cruel words in my head, see Anna standing beside her doing nothing. “Maybe next year,” I tell ...