I have five cards. We are at a table. Mr. Woodhouse sits across the room, over by the fire, out of the chill. He has only one eye in the center of his face. I look back to my cards. I have only three. Mother. Where is mother? I get up. With each step, the room shifts. I am off the carpet and walking down the side of the walls as if this is natural. The colors are too vibrant. The furniture moans. Mother, are you down this dark corner? Mother, are you in the room with the tiny fire burning? The hallway is long and tilts and yawns. I feel it shudder and stretch as if it’s a living thing. I don’t want to be here. My legs tremble.