Me and Grandpa are left in the kitchen. Grandpa rubs at his face, just the way my dad does. He breathes in this big breath - I can see his stomach rising, under the faded check cloth of his shirt. It's gone a nasty yellow around his neck and against the cuffs. My dad's shirts are always stiff and clean and white: you button him up all the way to his throat and there he is, locked up safe and going nowhere. But Grandpa Lived Through A War, so he wears things till they fall apart.
I go through the back door of the shop, into the hall and up the narrow stairs. The shop is part of Grandma and Grandpa's house, so all of their rooms are muddled: the kitchen is downstairs, next to the storeroom, but the living room is upstairs. At night, when I lie in bed, the light from the television flickers against the landing wall, and studio laughter plays across my dreams. Everything is darker here, and older.
Inside, the house is full of fighting too. I can hear Hannah next door, crying. I can hear Grandma downstairs, her voice high and angry, and Grandpa, murmuring at her. I put on my dry clothes and climb into bed, pulling the funny old-fashioned quilt-and-blanket over my head. I get my book out and read, trying not to listen to the loneliness of being alone in a house full of noise.
Outside, the rain falls quieter now. It's getting dark.