The heat in the kitchen was a physical blow. It felt like the walls had moved in six inches since I’d walked in, squeezing the air out of the room. Mama was frying onions, the smell of burnt fat thick and cloying, sticking to the back of my throat.
I sat at the small, crowded table, trying to make room for my elbows between the stack of bills and a bowl of bruised apples.
"He's outside again," Mama said. She didn't turn around. She just kept stirring the pan, her shoulders hunched.
"I know."
I stood up, the chair screeching against the linoleum. I needed to breathe. I pulled open the back door, and there he was, leaning against the brickwork, a shadow carved out of the night. The weight of the silver daggers at his belt seemed to pull at the very air around him.
"You're so... tiring a
