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my rock ,” I think to myself.  Soon Meli and Will come in, and then Matthias and Harry.  I serve them all, handing out little feasts on our best cracked dinner plates and making witless conversation about anything I can think of.  I seem to be talking now just to keep myself from thinking too much, and it sounds like chatter to my ears.  I even out-talk Meli which is remarkable in and of itself.
    “Here is your English Breakfast, Is,” I hand Israel his tea in my other favorite cup, one with a fat orange colored cat pictured.  I also have the same cat on a t-shirt, though Emme once tried to burn it after she claimed she only wanted to borrow it.  I know better now than to believe her when she compliments my fashion.  I had to cut off the burnt bottom just to salvage it, and now it’s so short I have to wear it under over-alls, a sort of revenge on Emme, so it worked out well.  It’s a double whammy fashion disaster now, she says.
    Israel takes the cup, but his eyes look concerned when the sleeve of my white nightgown falls back towards my elbow.  He has seen my scratches.  He reaches out and rubs them lightly with his thumb.  “What happened?” He mouthed.  He knows already somehow I don’t want to speak of it with the others.
    I shrug as though I either don’t recall or it isn’t important enough to mention. I suddenly don’t want to talk anymore and I definitely don’t want to talk about my arm.  It begins to throb again, and burn.
    I eat, but the breakfast tastes wooden in my mouth.  I wash my bites down with coffee but it tastes of nothing.  I feel as though I want to jump out of my skin, especially the skin on my arm and wrist.  I hear Meli and Will debating something, and Harry interjecting gentle admonishments to them. I see Prue come out from her bedroom and push my father’s leg off the coffee table as he snores on.  I am aware of Israel watching me, looking perplexed.  I see Dad finally pick himself up off the couch and fold his blanket neatly; fluffing the pillow he leaves behind.  I see all this and hear all this, and yet, I feel far away, distant; like I am on the outside of our kitchen window, peering in, hearing snippets of conversations and softly spoken words.  Why, if it was just a dream, is it affecting me so?  I need to get a handle on myself.  I need to get out of this house.  First however, I need a bath.
    Our bathroom is old, like the rest of our house, but it has a wonderful, deep tub.  After years in other centuries, where you’d never find something like that, much less instant hot water, I avail myself baths frequently.  It is a luxury that I dread missing when we leave, and leave we will eventually.  Inevitably.  An embarrassing amount of my tip money is squandered on bubble bath and oils.  I may not have good clothes or fancy hair, but I guarantee I smell good.  This morning I pour in a ginger and pear concoction that I paid far too much for and only use for special occasions.  That’s a ridiculous limit I’ve sternly set for myself; if I wake tomorrow in dusty Egypt four hundred years in the past, I am really going to be angry with myself for wasting what I had left in the bottle.  So I pour in a few more drops before sliding in myself, up to my nose in fragrant bubbles.  I can’t help the sigh that escapes me when I hear knocking on the door only a scant few seconds later.  Without even moving the rest of my body, I can reach the doorknob and I open it obediently.  It swings by my head and I don’t even open my eyes to see who it is because I know it’s Meli.  She probably was left at the breakfast table, still talking, as everyone wandered off and now she’ll be looking for a captive audience.  Sure enough, when I open my eyes just a slit, Meli is sitting on the counter and she begins a long narrative about Will and work and babies and marriage and cars and the house and this century and the weather and politics and religion.  I do love