The sobs and wails from the residents’ rooms weaken me further. I continue forward on hands and knees. Every time I try to push to stand, another cry assaults my ears. At last I reach Mrs. Greeley’s door and slump against it.
“Mrs. Greeley? Are you in there? Are you okay?”
“Katy, dear, is that you?” Her voice is anxious, but free of tears.
“It’s me.”
“I’m trapped. That witch jammed something in the door handle.”
“Give me a moment,” I say. Oh, the handle is up so, so high. Can I stand up to reach it? How can I not try? I let my head thump against Mrs. Greeley’s door, the sound that of defeat.
“Close your eyes, dear,” Mrs. Greeley says.
“What?”
“Close your eyes. They’re blinding you to the falseness of her voice. With them closed, you will hear her for what she is.”
Certainly I’ve b
