The pen pressure was too even.

Somebody had traced my handwriting.

The ink was pressed deep into the paper.

I folded my hands perfectly still in my lap.

I sat on the edge of the narrow mattress and listened to the soft hum of the old window unit pushing damp air into the room.

The rest of the house was completely quiet.

Glenn was asleep down the hall behind a closed door.

Aunt Martha wouldn’t show up with breakfast for another two hours.