Chapter 2

On the second day, I started running a fever. The box was too narrow for me to lie down flat, so I could only sit and hug my knees to my chest.

Whenever my back touched the metal wall, the friction would cause my wound to reopen. The pain left me covered in cold sweat.

I held down the button on the walkie-talkie and called out, "Mom, I really can't take it anymore. Please let me out so I can see a doctor. I'll come back. I promise I'll come back."

The clinking of plates and utensils came from the other end of the walkie-talkie. Mom was feeding Ezra.

She used to feed me like that, too. She would chop vegetables into tiny pieces and mix them into my soup, telling me they were green stars.

I heard Ezra slapping the table.

Mom said gently, "You don't want this? I'll make you an omelet instead."

I endured the pain and called out, "Mom."

The other end went quiet for a few seconds.

Finally, she spoke, asking, "Are you ready to admit what you did?"

I bit my lip and replied, "I didn't lose Ezra on purpose."

"You're still being stubborn." Mom slammed the plate down. "Evelyn, I gave you a chance. All you have to do is admit you were wrong. Say you did it on purpose, and I'll let you out."

I stared into the darkness as tears rolled down my face. "But I didn't do it on purpose."

"You did," Mom insisted.

Her breathing grew rapid as she went on, "You're jealous of him. You're jealous that I take care of him. You're jealous that everyone in the family revolves around him. Just last month, you said you wished Ezra wouldn't scream all the time."

I froze upon hearing that.

That day, I had been doing homework until the early hours of the morning while Ezra slapped the walls in the living room.

All I had done was cover my ears and say, "Can you please be quiet for a little while?"

Mom had stormed in and slapped me hard across the face. She said I had no compassion. Even after that slap, I still warmed Ezra's milk as usual the next day and took him to the therapy center.

I thought that as family, I could express to them that I felt tired. Apparently, I wasn't allowed to.

Dad's voice came through the walkie-talkie, "Hannah, that's enough."

My head snapped up. "Dad!"

Dad was back.

I pounded on the sides of the box with all my strength and shouted, "Dad, I'm hurt! Let me out!"

Footsteps drew closer outside the basement door.

Dad's voice came through from the other side, "Evie, just apologize to your mom first. She's been on the verge of breaking down these past few days."

My hands stopped pounding on the door. "Dad, do you think I did it on purpose, too?"

He fell silent. That silence hurt more than Mom's scolding.

Mom said coldly, "Michael, don't go soft on her. If she's willing to abandon her brother today, she'll be willing to get him killed tomorrow."

Dad lowered his voice. "We should let her out first. We can't leave her wounds untreated."

Mom laughed and mocked, "She's putting on another act. Have you forgotten what Ezra looked like when they brought him back? He was missing a shoe, and his arms were covered in scrapes."

Dad said nothing more.

I heard him walk away.

At that moment, I knew this door wasn't going to open.

That night, Ezra cried for a long time. He kept repeating, "Red… Evie… Red…"

Mom finally lost patience with his crying. She turned on the walkie-talkie and shouted at me, "Are you happy now? You've already scared him so badly, and now you want him to cry for you!"

I pressed myself against the crack in the lid and whispered, "Ezra saw my blood. He isn't scared because of me. He's trying to tell you I'm hurt."

Mom fell silent for a moment. Then, she said, "Shut up."

The walkie-talkie went dead again.

I leaned back. The pain made my vision turn white.

In the darkness, I felt around in my pocket and found our family photo. The corners of the photo were damp with blood. We had taken it last month before my school's spring field trip.

I stood at the very edge. Ezra was holding my arm, Mom had one hand on his shoulder, and Dad was looking at the camera.

On the back of the photo was a plan I had written in black ink.

I wrote, "Get a part-time job at a bookstore during summer vacation. Apply for a scholarship when school starts. Save money to buy Ezra better speech-training cards."

The last line read, "Someday, Ezra will be able to address Mom as "Mom" and call me by my name."

I ran my fingers over that line and smiled faintly. I still hadn't gotten to hear him call my name properly.