The girl rolled out of bed, her feet hitting the floor simultaneously. She stood, stretched, and walked to the door, grabbing a hairband as she left the room, from the dish on the shelf.

Twisting her long hair back into a bun, she walked lightly through the living room, brushing the couch with her calf muscles, to the kitchen. It was a straight shot, no doors or anything. Her eyes fell onto the table, the white note there. Stark black handwriting stared up at her, with her name written in old-fashioned cursive.

"Sweetheart," the unfolded note read. "We've gone to work--sorry we missed you! Could you please put the dishes in the dishwasher sometime this morning, before you head to practice? Thanks! Love, Mom."

Her mouth rose on one side and twisted oddly on the other, creating a half-angry, half-pleased expression. Setting the note down on the kitchen table, the bright white landing on a crumb, she turned to the counter. The pile of dishes sitting there took her breath away--all the dishes from the last two days that her father had "cleared" from the table while she went to go help her mother with some task. Plates, forks, spoons, a steak knife, two butter knives, and countless cups of all sizes, combined with dark ringed mugs, ate up the granite countertop. A pan sat in the sink, one she had used last night and meant to wash but didn't. Two travel cups that were handwash-only sat to the side, half filled with liquid, under the large curtained window.

The first thing she did was pull the blinds. Light filtered into the room, illuminating the mess. Glancing towards the pantry, she saw that whomever had gone grocery shopping had brought back a box of pre-made doughnuts and one of cinnamon rolls. Great. More sugar for everyone to munch on when they got stressed or angry. Bottling up their feelings was one of the family's specialties, after all. And she hated it.

Opening the dishwasher, she peeked inside. Luckily, it was cleared, empty. Because she had emptied it last night, but still. Why can't they put them inside? she wondered, but ended that line of whys because it never got her anywhere. She started unpiling the plates, leaving the silverware on the counter. Then she swept the utensils into their spots. Finally, she rinsed out the ringed mugs and plopped them and the glasses onto the top rack. Done, she thought, closing it up. Her eyes caught on the pan, on the travel cups, and she realized she wasn't done. Not even close.

Automatically reaching for the soap and turning on the water, she emptied the first cup and dropped a bit of soap into it. A purple sponge was next, wet and run around and around the inside of the cup until the whole thing was sudsy. She mindlessly rinsed it until the water ran clear, and bubble-free.

She set that cup aside and began to do the same to the next one. Across the kitchen, near the back door, her dog, who had previously been sound asleep and twitching, barked. He raced to the window, growling a little. She sighed. "Cerberus," she said, "there's nothing." Her tone was resolute, but the dog continued to growl. In a softer voice, but no less strong, she told him, "There's nothing there."

She went back to her dishes, and the dog laid down in his place again, but those words swirled through her head so many times they got stuck.