Chapter 9
“Special delivery!” I say aloud, but no one is listening.
The cardboard edge of the box of diapers saws into the meat of my fingers, right where the calluses from the garden shears used to be.
I stop at the bookshelf door to hike the box up against my hip.
My lower back gives a little pop—a dry, brittle sound, like stepping on a beetle—and a hot wire of pain zips down my sciatic nerve.
The bookshelf is dark-stained oak, filled with books I’ve already read. They’re just camouflage, a wall of paper and glue and words.
The opening is a black mouth. I shoulder my way inside, the box scraping against the doorframe.
It’s cooler in here by ten degrees, easily.
I don’t turn on the light this time. I don’t need to.
The hum of the dehumidifier in the corner chugs away like a sick lung, and I set the diapers beside it.
Keeping my eyes trained on the bricks of the wall, I count pockmarks in the mortar.
I don’t like to look at what I’ve let happen in here.
I turn around and leave, stepping from the concrete back onto the hallway rug.
I grab the edge of the bookshelf and swing it shut.
The seam vanishes and the shadows are gone, sealed away behind the oak and the old paperbacks.
I stand there for a second, rubbing the red indentations the box left on my fingers, wondering when this will end.