She stood, slowly, shaking and empty. One last sob racked her body, leaving her gasping for air. She nearly doubled over, trembling with exhaustion. Silence wrapped itself around her, cloying. Dick didn’t move. Dr. Renfield silently reached out to her and touched her, ever so gently on the back. She shrugged, unable to comprehend what that touch might mean. Dr. Renfield let her hand go slack at her side again. She waited. There was nothing. She didn’t want to be the first to speak. She didn’t want to be the one to break the silence that came after the crying. Dick stood awkwardly in the corner. He was his usual calm, it seemed, but Meera saw him twitch for a moment and wring at the edge of his shirt before letting it go. Dr. Renfield looked at the door, then her watch. “When does your mum get here, Dick?” He wrung his shirt-tail again, then smoothed it back down. “She doesn’t come up here if she doesn’t have to. She lives in town with my brothers.” The impish boy Meera saw sometimes showed through again. But this time he was sad, peeking out through Dick’s usually adult eyes. Dr. Renfield saw it, too. Just a flicker of surprise crossed her face. “Have you two got supper?” “I think there’s mutton stew left over in the icebox.” The sad little boy peeked out of Dick’s eyes. “There should be.” Dr. Renfield looked in the refrigerator. The lamp inside flooded the empty white interior, one pot, a jar of marmite, and a lone bottle of brown sauce were the only disturbances, three dark brown lumps against the gleaming white. She closed the door again. “That won’t do. Meera, do you feel up to going out?” She shrugged. “Let’s try.” She shrugged again, then nodded. “Splash some water on your face. It’ll help.” Dick was still wringing his shirt-tails. “I usually have more! I just haven’t been shopping for a little bit. Don’t call my mum, please.” He wasn’t sure why he said that part. He felt to be 8 again, called into the headmaster’s office, and it just slipped out. “It’s okay. It’s really okay.” He relaxed a little at that. Meera splashed water on her face. The first stung, the salt from her tears dampened again so her raw skin could feel it, but the second splash washed it away, and the welcome cool that came after it was a relief. Her hands had been sticky, and still smelled of lemon from scrubbing the floor, and the fresh, clean smell of the water was a surprise. She ran the water over each hand, again, and again. Left rubs right, rinse, right rubs left, rinse. And again, letting the cool water splash over her hands again. She thought she saw the tears and the dirt from the floor spiral out the drain, though they were already long gone. Another rinse. Finally she stopped and timidly took the white towel that hung from the bar next to her. She hesitated, not wanting to mar the soft, white surface, sure that her hands would leave dirty streaks across it. She was surprised when they didn’t, and the towel stayed white, even as she dried her hands, then her face. She sighed, and brushed at her pants awkwardly, trying to remove dust that wasn’t there.