Meta was four—four and a half on Wednesday. She and her mom were in the house alone, except for the pillows whispering from the window seat. They were watching the storm outside and yelping every time lightning struck beyond the hills. Meta thought their stuffing was bound to fall out onto the floor.

"Meta! Meta!"

Her mom's voice, angry. Meta sat still on the rug, a toy race car frozen between her knee and the coffee table.

"Get your ass up here!"

The little girl hopped up and ran upstairs toward her mom's voice (really angry, now). Oooooo, the pillows called out. You're in trouble!

Her mom was in the upstairs bathroom, right across from the nursery that used to be Meta's. Her mom didn't change it because she figured the new baby would need a nursery, but then Meta's daddy left, and the new baby wasn't coming anymore. The stork must have decided to keep it.

"What are these?"

The bathroom tile was littered with popcorn. Meta clasped her hands in front of her. "I was trying to catch a mouse."

"A what?"

"I saw one in the closet, and I thought it would make a good pet, if I could train it up a lit--"

"You—"

Her mother was shaking like the fizz on top of a coke. Meta watched her skin shiver and her hand float alongside her body as though she wasn't sure what to do with it. She looked down at Meta, then down at the popcorn, then up at the ceiling, and then her mother walked past the little girl, down the stairs, and out the door.

Meta stood in the bathroom, wondering if the shower curtain might say something. It did sometimes, but it wasn't as talkative as the pillows.

Her mother didn't come back for two years. Meta went to stay with her daddy after the Avon lady found her cuddled up in a pillow fort two days after her mom left. There were Pop Tart wrappers and empty juice pouches scattered around the living room. The Avon lady gasped, but Meta didn't know why. She had been having a nice time alone, and the pillows were being more friendly than usual--no snickering at her nasty hair or her chewed up fingernails. Why don't you snuggle with us, Meta? You look lonely, Meta.

But she went to live with her daddy, who had rough pillows that said mean things to her. They told her all about her daddy (he drank two cases of beer last night, girl, before he screwed a nasty redhead and handed her a wad of twenties). She didn't listen to them too much. Her daddy did drink a lot, but only because it tasted good. She thought she probably drank too much juice, too, but no one was getting onto her about that.