The man jumped and stared at the two little girls. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "We live here, in the caretaker's cabin," Rosetta answered. "Do you need help?" "Do I need help?" he roared. "What do you think, you little snippet?" "What's a snippet?" asked Bianca innocently.

Maybe it was Cara's version of darkness that told me she was empty. She didn't believe in letting light in through cracks or streams, and I'm not sure she believed in letting it in at all. Cara was the empty feeling in my heart, the offness of the drumbeat in a funeral song. She didn't believe in letting the light in through cracks because she didn't believe in letting the light in at all.