Page 9 of Dream House
We should really call them consequences.
I know what I’m talking about here. In a mine, when a roof collapses, or a fire traps men in a shaft and asphyxiates them, or an explosion buries miners under thirteen hundred feet of salt or coal or silicone, people watching the news are shocked and saddened. You know who isn’t shocked?
The experts.
The ones who know that mining companies cut corners. They don’t use stability criteria to prevent cascading pillar failure. They don’t dig a back-up shaft—or they begin to but never finish the job—so when a fire breaks out, there’s no escape. They ignore gas reads because they want to make their daily quota on extraction, and a controlled blast is the only way to do that.
These aren’t accidents. They’re consequences.
Because they know better.
I know better.
I should, anyway. Out of anyone, I should know better.
Maggie and Bear stare at me like the collapse of my relationship with Zoe is an accident. Like this wasn’t bound to happen. Like I haven’t posted the proper warning signs.
Danger: Keep Out
Every miner knows what happens in a tunnel collapse. If you survive the actual event, you know that when oxygen saturation drops below twenty percent, you start breathing faster, working to get more in. But then there’s less, and you get dizzy. Your ears buzz. If you’re lucky, you faint before convulsions set in.
Rescues happen, sure. But too often it’s just not possible.
The only way to guarantee you won’t suffocate is to avoid going too deep in the first place.
“I have to get up early,” I say, deliberately ignoring Maggie’s impossible questions. “I need to look for a place to live before class tomorrow.”
As I walk back into the house, I feel their stares on my back, almost as heavy as a cave-in.
Almost, but not quite.
ChapterThree
STELLA
“Good news.”Pen dumps her beaded canvas bag on the floor and slams the front door behind her. “You’re zoned for residential/commercial, so you can open your salon without needing to get the property rezoned.”
She waves her phone at me. “I also downloaded a lease agreement we can customize for each tennant and listed the rooms on Zumper, Roomies, and Craigslist.”
My eyes bug. “We’re not ready for anyone to move in right now.” Thanks to financing, we have a new roof, so no more leaks. And thanks to Pen’s cousin Amos, the upstairs bedroom with the shot ceiling has new sheetrock. But Amos cut us a deal that didn’t involve cleaning up after himself.
“We haven’t even finished unpacking ourselves, much less cleaning out the rooms so they can be shown.”
Pen draws in her lips. “I didn’t think of that.”
The sound of size four flip-flops slap through the dining room. Maisy pinwheels into the foyer, brown hair flying behind her. “I can help. I’m a good helper.”
I look down at my daughter. We didn’t brush her hair today. What kind of stylist lets her own child run around with tangled hair?
“You are a good helper.” I narrow my gaze on her pink T-shirt. It’s wet. I don’t hear water running, which is a good sign, but you never know. “What were you doing?”
“Washing.” She blinks up at me, all innocence behind the frames of her glasses. That’s one of the few things she got from her father. Hyperopia. You know those toddlers you see wearing glasses with the strap that goes around the back of their heads? Pitiful, right? Yeah, that was Maisy.
At least she doesn’t need the strap anymore. Maybe she’ll be able to wear contacts when she’s older, but since her lenses magnify her eyes, she can pull off the innocent look like nobody’s business.
But it’s my business not to be fooled.
“Washing what?”
