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The outside of Vera was shaped like the inside of this house. This was the house her father had built with his two strong hands. This was the goldfish tank where she’d grown to the size she would always be, even after her mother gave her away to the world.
Her mother has told her several times not to sneak, as if it’s Vera’s fault that nobody pays attention to the sounds of her life.
He was no bigger than the men who’d died beneath her bed when she was a child. His anger was no greater than their fear had been. She’d been so afraid of what his anger might unlock in her, but here it was, pointed right at her, and it was so small. He was clenching his fists and stomping his feet and shouting as if that could touch her.
