Davey’s eyes flicker to my right sleeve and I narrow my eyes as he vacillates over my fate. Is there anything left of me, or have I been reduced to a cripple?
My mother opens the drawer on her way to the oven, pulls it hard enough for the cutlery to clatter loudly. Ma loves emphasis.
“Right,” I mumble in response. The word comes out corroded, as if I’ve just woken up.
Hannah comes into the kitchen, wrinkles her nose at the sight of the mashed potato-meatloaf amalgamation cooling on the counter. “Where’ve you been?” she asks me.
I shrug, nod toward the open drawer. “Set the forks.”
Create a free account to keep reading.
