I wake to a Siamese kitten on the windowsill, five stories above a Brazilian slum, hissing at a little tropical bird.

We huddle in pairs on the floor. The next morning there are stiff corpses on the deck, lined up head-to-toe with twine. They have been killed by the gentle whip that tickles. We could have spoken up to save them. Instead we lie to the investigators and tell them our parents did it.

He jumps up with red bands along his stretchy yellow legs. It turns out my brother was right.

The tiniest studio apartment in purgatory, which is essentially a toy kitchen covered by a loft bed, belongs to the same woman who offered to give me a voice lesson.