Chapter 5

The days blurred. I only knew time was passing because of the books. I finished Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, then another Claire brought, then another. Their spines piled up in the corner like a crooked calendar, each one a notch against the weeks.

Laundry came and went. We wore the same clothes again and again, soft from washing, thin from use. At night, Mom and I carried baskets, folded shirts, scrubbed the bathroom, cleaned the kitchen. The motions became familiar, almost comforting.

Sometimes I felt proud. At least I was helping, not just sitting around in a windowless room with nothing to do. At least I was useful.

Other times I hated it. My world had shrunk to wiping tiles and folding socks. I thought of the track at school, of running until my lungs burned, of the laughter after practice. Now my legs ached from stillness, my arms from scrubbing.

I tried exercising. Did my squats. Push ups. But that was it. The room was too small for anything else. What I wouldn’t have given to just skip rope. Or even just jump up and down again.

The nights were the only times we left the room. We moved like shadows through the house, never speaking above a whisper. The smell of detergent, of soap, of floor polish became my new outdoors, my fresh air.