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".