Deathbed
“Were you and Jessica close?”
“Not really. We used to be but … you know.” Donny Leonard looked away from the social worker, taking in the campy charm of his office. Moodily lit, yards of polished wooden surfaces, many books, and a picture of an old man on the wall between two shelves that might have been the therapist’s father.
“I understand. Siblings grow apart, especially at your age.” He consulted an open folder on his cluttered desk. “She was a year younger than you, but the difference between sixteen and seventeen can feel like a big one.”
“Yeah,” Donny agreed. “Mostly it was just us. We were different.”
“You say the … the thing under your sister’s bed went away when you gave her the nightlight?”
“Yes,” Donny said. Then, remembering what his stepmother had said
