Chapter 2

The basement always smelled like mold and rotting orange peel.

The orange peels Abigail tossed downstairs after she finished eating would rot in the corner.

I was nine when I got pneumonia. I coughed so hard it felt like my lungs were coming apart. Every breath was like inhaling shards of broken glass.

I didn't dare tell anyone.

The last time I'd complained about a stomachache, Mom accused me of faking it to get out of washing dishes and made me stand in the corner for two hours.

So this time, I endured it.

During the day, I still scrubbed the floors on my hands and knees, polishing each tile one by one.

When Abigail practiced the piano, I knelt beside her, turning the pages of her sheet music. Every time she hit a wrong note, she'd slam her heel onto the back of my hand.

"You turned the page too soon!" she'd scream.

The back of my hand swelled until it looked like a dinner roll. Purple bruises spread beneath my skin, with tiny spots of blood breaking through.

But I couldn't pull my hand away. If I did, I'd be interrupting her concentration, and Dad would skin me alive.

That night, my fever burned so high I drifted in and out of consciousness.

I vaguely sensed someone coming downstairs. The footsteps were light—the soft rubber soles of house slippers against concrete.

It was Abigail. She crouched in front of me with a popsicle in her hand. It was strawberry, my favorite flavor.

She took a bite, and sticky-sweet juice dripped onto my face.

"Hannah, are you going to die?" she asked.

I couldn't even open my eyes. All I could do was gasp for air.

"If you die, I'm going to burn all your stuff."

Then she shoved the half-eaten popsicle down the collar of my shirt. The freezing cold jolted my body upright for an instant before I collapsed back onto the mattress.

"Quit pretending," she said as she stood over me. "If you die, who's going to wash my stinky socks?"

She left me covered in sticky, melted sugar and chilled to the bone.

The next morning, I couldn't get out of bed.

By the time Dad found me, the fever was so high I couldn't speak. He pressed a hand to my forehead and frowned.

"Taking her to the hospital would be too much trouble," he said. "Besides, she might infect Abby."

Mom was upstairs brushing Abigail's hair before her speech competition.

"Do we still have any fever medicine? Give her a couple of pills."

Dad went to find the medicine. The pills had long since expired. They were yellowed, dry, and crumbling.

I couldn't swallow them, so he pinched my nose shut and forced them down my throat.

The bitter taste hit immediately. I started choking, then threw up all over the bed.

"That's disgusting!" Mom shouted from upstairs. "Don't get it on the rug! That Persian rug was imported!"

Dad grabbed me by the hair and dragged me into the bathroom. He threw me into the bathtub and turned on the cold water.

"Clean yourself up," he ordered.

The icy water poured over me, and my entire body convulsed uncontrollably.

I wanted to scream, but all that came out was a rasping whimper.

He didn't even look back. He locked the bathroom door and walked away.

The water kept running. It rose past my ankles, then my knees. I lay slumped against the edge of the tub, staring at the whirlpool circling the drain.

I wondered if the water could carry me somewhere Abigail didn't exist.

But I didn't die.

I survived. Like a sewer rat, too stubborn to die—so stubborn it was disgusting.

After that, I never got sick again. Or maybe I just never dared to get sick again.