Narrative:

My sister hasn’t left her room since mom left for the store. I’m sitting and waiting to hear the creak of her floorboards, the hinge of her door, the nothing of her gait. The house is silent. Maybe she figured out which floorboards to avoid.

I think she learned her silence from me. I walked to class with her when we were younger, and she saw my quiet steps and how they hardened as we crossed onto school-sanctioned linoleum. She was there when I built a smile as we turned corners and saw a familiar face. I never hid from her the scaffolding of my personality, and that was my mistake.

“Jake?” Jenny says from the doorway, and I jump at the sound. She’s leaning her head in when I look up from my dark phone screen. Her smile is like cracked wood.

“Yes?”

“When’s Mom home?”

“Soon, I think,” I say. “Do you need something?”

She leaves before I can finish the question.

I pull my headphones back on. I can’t do anything about it. She’s probably gone out the door and is sitting on the stoop, hesitating over the send button on her hand-me-down phone. It used to be mine.

The front door slams open, too loud to be Jenny. I pull off my headphones like she’s about to walk in, like she’s here for me.

From “Wood Glue” by Atticus Garrow

Art: