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to open the door, just to shut it, just to open it once more. And he can walk the hall. No bars. No guards. He pauses by each door listening. Not to be nosy. Just because he
can.
Just because each pause spells freedom.
    Back in bed. Feet hanging off the edge, he is surprised to discover it does not bother him. Something nice
about his heels suspended like that, floating above the floor. He stares out of the window. Part of Capricorn is visible. A couple of its stars missing. Not perfect, but it’s there. He thinks about those other constellations above his prison bunk. The curves of them. And he misses them, the strange comfort of the fuck-me eyes looking down on him.
    Her dark hair smelt like coconut. The real fruit, not store-bought oils. And there was a shimmer in her chestnut eyes that always reminded him of candlelight. Pearly whites with one tooth slightly chipped. And her laughter, like porch chimes blown gently by a passing breeze. Soft like that. And sweetly musical. On the pillow he shakes his head slightly to clear it. Thinks instead of the stars outside. Must keep his mind focused, but in a dream that night he looks down to see blood under his fingernails, and when he wakes his sweat feels cold.
    Lizzie rises early. Sun not yet quite up, but already day’s weight in the thickness of the air. The endless sky lightens above the still dark prairie. Not yet quite light enough to cast sunrise’s short shadows across the lawn, but already the birds are stirring. She didn’t sleep well. Heard his footsteps once in the hall, creaking the floorboards with each careful step. Start and stop. One room to the next, pausing. Then the quiet click of his door closing. Then silence. She didn’t sleep much after that. Didn’t dream. Woke before the sun. And now, standing in the kitchen, something feels wrong, like she’s woken up in a stranger’s home, in a stranger’s life that is not her own, nor will it ever be, nor does she want it.
    Christmas mornings when they were little neither was allowed to go downstairs before the other. It was their own rule, for once, not one of the many inflicted upon them. And that made it all the more sacred. They had to see the Christmas tree together. One morning Lizzie snuck down before Jasper. Crept down the stairs on tippytoe, careful as she could. Didn’t even dare to breathe as she slid past Jasper’s door. Mama and Daddy were still sleeping too, and Lizzie felt like an outlaw as she tiptoed through the darkness, sky already turned a blue grey dawn that in its silence screamed of winter. The tree looked like something on a Christmas card come to life, covered with strands of tiny silver tinsel that captured the pre-dawn light, Santa’s presents a small sea spilling into the room. She sucked in her breath: it looked so pretty. And straight away she wished Jasper was there to see it with her. Later on, she pretended to be surprised as they came down the stairs. She had to. But the moment was ruined. And she felt so guilty that she ’fessed up. And Jasper just laughed at her and said, ‘You think I ain’t done that every Christmas morning?’ And her cheeks had burned hot with anger, bright with shame.
    Somehow, entering the kitchen this morning, Lizzie feels like that girl again, snuck down in the dark. Not that it’s a special day. Not that it’s a holiday. Not that she’s sure she even really wants Jasper there beside her. In fact, she’s fairly sure she doesn’t. Just somehow in this early hour, before the girls are stirring, it feels as though she is the one now sneaking through the house, pausing to look and listen where she shouldn’t. As if it’s still Mama’s house and not her own.
    She makes a cup of coffee. Black. Sits down at the small table and stares into the dark depths of that cup. Too scalding to drink yet. Bobby and she used to wake up this hour Sunday mornings. While she’d lie in bed, eyes adjusting to the lightening room, he’d go down and fetch them