ABSTRACT
Chloe helter-skelters up the stairs. She drops her lunchbox on the lowest stair, her reading folder on the next, flings her sweater over the banister; behind her upward rush, it slides down the slick wood and drops to the living room floor. At last the school part of the day is done. She's almost frantic to get to her room, where everything, including time, will be soft and furry and belong to her. She feels it in her feet, in her belly, as physical and imperative as needing lunch or having to go to the bathroom. At the top of the stairs, two pink glops from the raspberry popsicle she grabbed from the kitchen drop on to the polished hardwood floor, and then a blob drops on to the Persian rug in the hall. Chloe is going too fast to notice. As she touches the handle on the door to her room, she hears the front door click, and knows her mother has just walked in.
