The back door is out of the question. I've used it too many times. The hinges have rusted with

age and make a loud creaking sound whenever they're used. Besides, it's too close to dinner time.

Uncle Eric is probably in the kitchen right now. The front door isn't much more appealing for other

reasons. Uncle Ned is probably already dozing on the couch.

Maybe I'll be able to sneak past him,

but I don't think it's very likely.

Ever since Mom and Dad,

a ragged sob breaks my lips at the memory of them.

I can't stay out here in the front yard forever, so I do my best to hide my limp as I walk up the

steps. My split lip will be harder to hide, especially with Uncle Eric always insisting we sit at the

dinner table together. Maybe I can get out of it by faking a stomachache. I opened the door,

step inside, and immediately pause.

Uncle Eric's fresh pasta and homemade sauce

waft through the breeze of the electric fan

and freeze me in place.

Uncle Eric's cooking is one of the few highlights of my life.

It's likely why I've put on weight in my two years of living here. Johnny? Cringing,

I try to turn away, but Uncle Ned puts a hand on my chin, gently turning my face in his direction,

but quickly letting go as I flinch. I tripped. Uncle Ned starts fuming, his body huffing and puffing,

like Bruce Banner about to turn into the Hulk.

My uncle is short and squat with a large belly, neatly trimmed hair, a bald spot in the back,

and tired eyes behind a pair of bifocals.

...