There is a woman in the kitchen below the garage who has been making breakfast for this house for seven years.

You have walked past her every week since March and did not once ask her name.

NessaNessa. And you don't have to ask about the wrist. Everyone asks about the wrist.

She puts a bowl down and wipes her hands and looks at you like someone waiting for a doctor to say the thing.

NessaHe kept me here to be the house. The house is a living thing. It needs someone in it.

She says it plainly, which is worse than if she had cried.