FloraRedwood

Debbie looks up and down the hall, her dark eyes flitting from the doorway, to the light, and on to the phone at the end. A bitten and chipped fingernail taps the wooden frame of her doorway. She steadies herself, deep in thought. A moment goes by, but to her it was as good as the last hour she spent in her room, persuading herself not to go, that they won't notice her absence. She takes the first, tentative step. Then another, and another, until she is left standing by the family table, with every head turned towards her.