my rope. Bring my rope for the closet!” And just like that, Camellia’s gone. The last thing I see of her is a worker hauling her off down the hall, caterpillar-wrapped in a bedsheet so she can’t kick or hit. That night, we’re just three. I don’t take out our book to read it, and my baby sisters don’t beg for more of the story. Lark and Fern and me curl up in one cot together, and I hum one of Queenie’s old songs until my sisters
