We arrive at Callie's house in a puddle of rainwater. Callie's father is still out cold, so we quietly walk past his door and to her room. It's quiet and bare and plain and smells musty as blazes. I have tried to rearrange and at least put some air freshener, but every day after I find Callie taking everything back down saying her room is fine as it is. We sit down on the cold stone floor. I close my eyes.

When I open them again, the little light in the room that comes from a pitiful excuse of a window has dimmed considerably. Callie is no where to be seen. I sigh, picking myself up from the  ground and walk out into the hallway. I can hear my footsteps echo in the dark as I pad to the kitchen. There I can see Callie cooking in the small, cramped room (it is a bit brighter than the rest of this miserable shed, I'll concede that much. I step on over to Callie.

What's cooking?

"Food," was the abrupt reply.

I had guessed as much.

She doesn't reply. I tap her on the shoulder. She doesn't look up. 

Today is a gloomy day, huh? I mutter.

She nods.