[Warm-up: “Laughter” in a cursive, eroded type.] She sat on the bench in the kitchen, folding little bits of cloth around the soaps and bath salts her aunt had made. Neat labels, stacked and ready to tie to each one. She hated this task every year, and it seemed as though her aunt started finding reasons to punish her just about the time it came around. The scent of lilacs permeated everything, becoming sickly sweet instead of the usual faint scent of the bushes at the side of the house as you passed near. It made her loathe the smell, and she knew she’d smell them on her hands for days. The front door slammed, and she started at the noise. Her brother slammed down his schoolbooks, and started talking. She wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or not, or whether he even knew if she was there, sitting in the kitchen, out of the line of sight from the front door.