“It isn’t real, James.” My voice is firm.
James calms, his smile faltering.
He sighs. “Thanks Melanie.”
As he heads upstairs, I slip out the door and run over the road. Larry answers on the third knock.
“Why did you tell James about the crate?”
Larry towers over me. “He has a right to know what’s in his
house. What it did to your Mum.”
I run, my tears escaping into the wind. But the memory remains, in a crate, under my bed.