*Calvin*
This isn’t a room. This is a closet. Even while she was safe at her home, she wasn’t treated well. It’s not like they didn’t have the space. The packhouse is large. This was a choice.
I sit on her bed, but it’s barely bigger than a chair. This is where she slept. Guilt wrecks me as I slide to sit on the floor for more room. My poor Ada. She deserved better than this.
I look around, taking in each and every detail of the small, green room. There’s a drawing in crayon taped to one wall of flowers and a sun above. In the bottom corner is written “Ada- age 7”. I reach up to take it off the wall, but I stop. I should ask Anthony. Maybe nothing in here is a happy memory for her.
There’s a small yellow bunny on her bed. It’s filthy and has poorly sewn holes, but it sme
