My Brother Hid a Recording Module Beneath His Daughter’s Dining Chair
She closed her eyes.
I pulled the quilt up to her chin.
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” I said.
“I know,” she said.
“You said.”
I left the door open just a crack.
The warm light from the hallway spilled across the foot of her bed.
The chair at our table would never hurt her again.
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