“Frances,” I said, when she answered. My breath was short from running, my heart drumming, my wound throbbing. I hadn’t realized I was feeling so strung out until I spoke and my voice was uneven, raspy. “Are—they here—yet?” I said, but before she could answer I bent over and put my hands on my knees, dipping my head down to stop myself passing out. She opened the door wider. “Come in,” she said. “I’ll get you some water.” And she closed the door behind me. I went into the living room. It was empty. I looked out the window for Dad’s car. The street was so quiet. I couldn’t see anyone. They weren’t here. Frances was in the kitchen. I could hear all sorts of things being moved about, not just cups and cutlery, but chairs and cupboard doors, like she was arranging and rearranging things. It distracted me, but not enough to make me go into the kitchen to see what she was doing. And anyway, I didn’t want to be near her. I was glad to be away from her, in another room, standing at the window, waiting for Mum and Dad.
