“You weren’t supposed to be back yet,” Vanessa stammered, the glass trembling in her hand.

Thaddius didn’t look at her. He didn’t blink. He walked toward me, his boots heavy on the floor. He dropped his bag and crouched beside me, ignoring the bleach, ignoring the audience. He took my hands—my shaking, raw hands—into his.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice trembling with a rage so profound it sounded like grief.

“I…” My voice failed. Shame is a heavy gag. “I was just cleaning up a spill.”

“She likes doing chores,” Vanessa’s mother piped up from the chair, a nervous, defensive scoff. “Helps her feel useful. You know how old folks get. They need purpose.”

Useful. Like I was a broken toaster. Like I was furniture.

Thaddius looked up then. The expression on his face wasn’t human. It was the look of a predator deciding which artery to sever first. He looked at Vanessa, then at her family.

“Mom,” he said, turning back to me, his voice dropping to a terrifying calm. “Get your things.”