A House With Good Bones

by T. Kingfisher

Caffeine shocked me awake. But the wakefulness only seemed to bring all the things that I couldn’t fix into sharper focus, so I went and buried myself in The Project for the next several hours, because if nothing else, at least I could sort hoverfly photos. Even if everything was terrible and Mom was in some kind of trouble and Gail was—what? enabling her? feeding her delusions?—even if all that was true, at least at the end of the day we’d have a couple hundred correctly labeled hoverflies. Sometimes that’s the best that you can hope for in life.

It’s just that there’s a big difference between teeth in situ at an archaeological dig and discovering a jar with somebody’s molars buried in your own backyard. A lot of molars. A lot.