“When I stay,” I whisper, “I think it does harm.” “I think you’re frightened.” It brings a kind of relief to admit it. “I am. I always am.” “That won’t do forever, my love.” I swallow, remembering the feel of the feather in my throat. “No, it won’t.” There is a long silence, but for the fall of water. “My father strangled a man to death,” I tell him softly. “My mother hung herself with a rope about her neck. Edith drowned on the fluid in her lungs. And my body suffocated our daughter. “I dream of choking, and I wake to find myself trying to steal the
