Deborah K locked herself in the bathroom. The sun had not
yet cleared the hedges. Her children still slept on their beds. Pancake mix
sat, anxious, on the counter. It had been months since she last cried. Today,
like always, she simply stared at herself in the mirror. This is your face, she
told herself. Sometimes she would smoosh her cheeks with her fingers, but today
she didn’t have the energy.
The architect had located the guest bathroom in the heart of
the house, with not even a window for light. It could be the quietist, safest
place in any storm. The architect had lost his family in a Hurricane while on
vacation as a young boy. If this had shaped the events of his life or the
construction of his house design, he did not mention it to anyone.
The architect felt foolish for knocking on the door. He knew
it was not usual to contact the owners of the house after sale, but he had
taken to driving around the neighborhood in the early hours. When he saw the
light on in the kitchen it felt cosmic. His hands willed themselves to pull the
car over and kill the engine. His feet brought him to the door and his arm
knocked his knuckles against the door.
Deborah K squealed. What was that? And then another knock on
the door.
