Andy sat on the floor of their shared room, knees pulled to his chest, watching his sister sleep. She was curled on the stained mattress, one hand clutching a butter knife—her "just in case" for the demon in the vents. Her hair was a rat's nest. Her lips were chapped. She was the most terrifying thing he had ever loved.
"Whatever we have to."
"The one with you on the other side. And you're crying. And I can't open the door because my hands are made of glass." the coffin of andy and leyley
"Anything."
"Promise you'll help me dig."
Leyley's expression didn't change, but the air got colder. "Mom's dead."
She smiled, slow and sharp. "Prove it."
That night, they didn't sleep apart. They never did anymore. She pressed her back against his chest, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, and they lay in the dark listening to the building settle—or maybe it was the demon, shifting its weight in the ducts, patient as a spider.
