Dust

She woke up on a low, narrow bed she could not call unfamiliar. Still, her upper body recoiled onto the twin thin points of her elbows. Strands of her hair stuck to her cheeks, matted and damp. She looked up at the ceiling fan. Lazy, she thought. Lazy was the word that came to mind. The arms were not making the violent sounds and wild but predictable motions that had seemed to rock her to sleep.

Somebody had entered in the night. Entered and tampered.

The young woman pushed herself off the bed. Her feet were two slabs of brown on the parquet floor. She remembered who she was to be, in this house, at this time: