There used to be a knock at the door. Esther sat up in bed, ready to hear her dad's footsteps, and when he went previous her open door she diagnosed the stumbling drunkenness of his gait. Please, she thought, do not let it be one of my pals ...
She heard him say, “lily,” in a voice that was once too loud, belligerent.
Esther froze; then she heard the scratching whine of the document player's needle being scraped across vinyl. Everything went quiet. Chair springs creaked.
Esther slipped out of mattress and crept to the door of her room, pushing it farther open.
Dad was in his chair, Mom used to be kneeling in front Of him.
“Rand,” Mom stated quietly, “we want to talk.”
He stared down at her, his hair used to be too long, and dirty. “It's too late for talking.” Mom reached for him; he
