Nora Brandt sat on the edge of her bed, clutching her pink duvet.
She missed her stuffed squirrel terribly. It was much easier to cuddle. Outside her door, she could hear her parents arguing loudly.
Nora tugged at the fur on her slippers. She could still see her brother, laughing at the barrel of the gun, his hand going up to ruffle his hair like he always did. She still remembered the smell of gunpowder as Zeke hit the floor, laughter permanently etched on his face.
Outside, a door slammed. Mummy must have quit the argument. The clink of Daddy's wine bottle, the blare of the TV, and Nora knew it was time for bed.
Quickly, quickly, sleep before Daddy comes in drunk and breaks something. Or someone.
Again.