Mist seemed to drift over the pools of his eyes so I couldn’t check them for information. He hardly spoke, his long body feeding off his unsaid stores. How could Robby be so tall, his body stretched, his eyes obscured, and yet I still be here? I was eleven years old but at the same time I was not. How can opposite things be true? In all that time, twenty-four months, Dad never hit Mum. The fight had gone underground, I could hear it bubbling in the pipes that fuelled the house. I was in the sewing room not sleeping when I heard someone come home. It had to be Robby because Dad was on the night shift. I put one arm out from under the blanket and felt the icy air. After counting eleven seconds my epidermis began to freeze. Robby and Mum started talking in the kitchen. I pulled back the blankets and got out of bed. When I pushed open the kitchen door I saw Robby and Mum standing at the island. Mum stepped towards Robby and reached up to him – his body was so high and thin.
