First time she'd ever had to scratch a photograph clean, Zoe thought with narrowed eyes, as she tilted her head to contemplate the eye contact with herself she'd achieved under a gray-dusted nail.
She set the frame onto the stand, face-down. Looked up and over toward the sound of clinking in the kitchen.
"Mama?" she called. "You been feelin' ill?"
No reply.
"These knick-knacks're gettin' awful dusty." She laughed soft, fluttery. "Rare you wait more than a week to get to the dustin'..."
And in a whunk, a cleaver fell.
Frozen, Zoe heard dust around her stirring.
Clocks a-tick, ticking...
July 18th. "Dust".
