and the smell of the forest with him, a sense of loneliness took his place—a solitude Yulia’s presence couldn’t fill. Xx “Je le hais. Tu le hais. Nous le haïssons.” I hate him. You hate him. We hate him. I stared at the ceiling, wearily conjugating French verbs in the most amusing way I could muster. The door opened, and, after a short pause filled by her bending down to pick the broken doorknob up off the floor, Yulia said, “This is house. Not barn.” I believed she was talking about the hour I spent banging on the painfully solid door yelling, “LET ME OUT!” at five a.m. this morning. But who knew? In this house, she could be referring to my speaking French. Ignoring her, I recited with zero enthusiasm, “Je le déteste. Tu le détestes. Nous le détestons.” I detest him. You detest him. We detest him. A stern face entered my view of the ceiling. “What is wrong with you?” “T'm on my period,” I explained. Her nose wrinkled like I was a singular and disgusting creature, then she disappeared from the room for a moment, making sure to dead bolt the door behind her, before returning with a box of tampons she dropped on my face. “Ow,” I complained, rubbing my forehead. She snickered. “Witch,” I groused. “Bitch.” Today was the worst day for the cramps to creep up on me. This morning, I decided I would do anything to get out of this room: rein in the sarcasm, sell my soul, blow the devil—you name it. One more day of this madness, and I’d end up as crazy as Renfield in Dracula. I was already nocturnal and questioning my veganism. Tomorrow, I’d be eating bugs.