Something flickered on my shoulder, in my peripherals. I turned my head; it was flame. I batted it with my hand. My mother and sister sat across from me around the campfire, talking. My father sat to my right, removed. I couldn’t seem to put it out.
“Hannah,” I said. “A little help?”
My sister looked over. “Oh, Michael.” She leaned across the fire, swatted my arm. It went out. “Must’ve been an ember…” I started. Hannah had resumed her conversation.
“Could’ve used your wet pussy, Michaela,” my father said.
I met his drunken eyes. He’d seen, and done nothing.
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