Contaminated 2: Mercy Mode by Em Garner

going to get worse?” I ask.
    Dillon’s expression tells me everything. “It can always get worse. Can’t it?”
    He kisses me then. Again and again. And we let ourselves get lost for a while in the kissing, but later, when I’m trying to sleep, I can’t stop thinking about what he said.
    Listening to the soft sound of his breath, I stare at the ceiling for a while. Then I get out of bed and make myrounds. It’s silly to check the windows and doors when the people who’d want to get in wouldn’t care if anything was locked, but my mom always used to do it and now I do it instead. I check on the puppy curled at the foot of Opal’s bed. Then Opal, who sprawls with her mouth open, her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. I crack the window for her, thinking with longing about air-conditioning and electric fans. Down the hall, I peek in on Mrs. Holly, who’s silent and motionless in her bed. Then my mom. Always my mom, who hardly ever sleeps anymore.
    She’s sleeping now, though. Her windows are all wide open, and I wonder if she did that herself. She surprises us all the time with what she’s capable of doing.
    I think about the soldiers and what they did to Sandra. I think about the man I found in his den. And I know what Dillon said is true.
    It can always get worse.

NINE
    “ IT’S YOUR TURN!”
    “No, it’s your turn!”
    We push and shove, wrestling, though I’m a lot bigger, and Mom and Dad will yell at me if Opal gets hurt. Which she does, the baby brat, in a minute. She bumps her elbow on the chair and starts yelling. I’m gonna get in trouble, but I don’t care because it
is
her turn.
    “It’s your turn,” I tell her. “I did it yesterday!”
    “Mama!”
    “Check the chore chart,” Mom says from the laundry room. She shows up in the doorway with a basket loaded with towels and stuff. “One of you, do the dishwasher. One of you, feed the dog and make sure she has fresh water. Both of you, gather the trash.”
    Opal and I stare at each other, both of us frowning. Opal crosses her arms and kicks her foot against the chair. This stubs her toe, and she hops up and down, hollering.
    “Settle the kettle,” Dad says from the living room. He’s putting together a bookcase from Ikea for my room. He told me it’s supposed to be easy because it comes with all the tools you need, but he’s been saying a lot of bad words.
    “Velvet, it’s your turn,” Opal whispers really loud.
    I don’t want to empty the dishwasher. I know it’s not my turn. I know it’s Opal’s turn, because yesterday, while she watched cartoons on Daddy’s computer, I emptied the dishwasher and I put a sticker on the chore chart. I could prove it to her. I could point it right out, and she’d have to do it for two days in a row because I did.
    But suddenly, I don’t really care so much. If she wants to be a baby booger brain about it, she can. I’ll unload the dishwasher, because I’d rather do that than open the stinky can of dog food and put it in the bowl, and then rinse the other one and put clean water in it. Jody slobbers all over everything and gets her fur all over it, and when you’re trying to feed her, she sometimes bumps into you so hard that everything spills. And she steps on your feet with her dirty paws, and I just got new white sneakers.
    “I’ll do the dishwasher, Opal.” Sugar wouldn’t melt in my mouth, my mom would say.
    Opal doesn’t even look suspicious. She just wiggles and laughs. I bet she thinks she’s getting the best of me, but guess what: ten minutes later, when I’m finished with the dishwasher and she’s covered in dog slobber, I’m the one who’s laughing.

    “Yeah, Dexter, I’d like that chore chart back.” I sigh. The puppy sniffs my foot and then whines at the back door to go out, so I open it for him. At least he’s housebroken.
    The memory isn’t a bad one. It is less about the dishwasher than about the time when we all were a family, and that’s what makes me sad