The morning sun came through the high hallway window at nine o’clock, throwing long, pale yellow squares across the floorboards.
I stood three feet from the bathroom door, a clean white towel folded over my left arm.
The small wooden table by the linen closet still held our old cream-colored Monopoly board, its box lid split at the corners. Several of the pieces were missing, the silver car and the thimble long gone, replaced by two plastic bottle caps we had used during some rainy summer years ago.
Tyler was already at the end of the hall, leaning his shoulder against the bathroom doorframe, spinning his brass room key around his index finger.
The metallic click of the key hitting his gold college ring was the only sound in the narrow passage.
He did not move when I approached, his broad shoulders taking up most of the frame.
“Going somewhere, Liv?” he asked, his voice booming in the narrow space.
“I need to use the basin,” I said, keeping my voice soft.
“You look like you are about to fall over anyway,” he said, letting the key drop into his palm with a soft slap. “Maybe you should just stay in your room today so you do not trip on the stairs again.”
