“Mom, you know Dana hates strawberry milk,” he says, looking at the spilled, pink mess all over the tile. “And chocolate milk and whatever kind of milk,” he says. “She’ll need to take Caltrate, just like—”
It’s pink because of the blood. It swells around his Converse as he steps into the puddle. Her lifeless hand lays in it. She is face-down on the tile.
In the other room, clutching her knees in the corner, is Dana. Her hair hangs over her face like wet macrame as she convulses, sobs crackling through the quiet air. He leaves the mess in the kitchen behind, and kneels down in front of her.
“Dana? Is mom?”
She doesn’t say anything. She pushes him away. Her small hands smack against his arms. He doesn’t budge, and his forearms are covered in sticky red.