When Duncan was ten years old, they'd put his puppy down for relieving herself on the flowerbed. She'd killed the flowers that his mother had not planted, so they'd killed her. They'd tried to tell him she was sick. They lied.

He'd cried himself to sleep that night. His sister came in and told him to shut up. Then she crawled into bed and held him. She told him to shut up, adding that everything would be all right in the morning.

It wasn't, not really. He acted like it was.

Six years later, his sister died. Lilly was like a bad little puppy. She did all the wrong things and loved every minute of it. His mother had said she was an embarrassment to the family. His father hadn’t said much of anything at all.

He wondered if they’d killed her.

He could see them taking the ashtray to her skull, battering her into oblivion. He could envision it so clearly that it terrified him.

He’d cried himself to sleep that night. He waited for his sister to come in and tell him to shut up. He waited for her to crawl into bed with him and hold him. He waited for her to say that everything would be all right in the morning.

But she didn’t.

He got up the next morning and forgot his suspicions. Everything had to be all right. It had to be.

It wasn’t, not really. He acted like it was.