She didn’t know what time it was when she woke up. It was dark then, and it was dark now. Juno pulled her shoulders away from the wall, tilting her head back in an attempt at a stretch. She could hear the noises of boys in the living room. They were playing video games, and every few seconds there would be a burst of gunfire followed by cheering and donkey-like guffaws. You should just stand up, walk out like it’s nothing, she told herself. You’d probably get away with it.

But the truth was she couldn’t stand up, not without help. She should have known; she’d felt the shift in her body, her mind loosening and her joints tightening. Her disease was predictable, and she always knew when a bad spell was coming. You knew. You just didn’t want to acknowledge it. The pain was stiff and sharp. She slid her butt down lower to ease the ache that had spread from her pelvis to her hips and slid down onto her knees.

Juno’s mind was clear partly because of the pain; it hadn’t gotten overbearing yet. But, it would, oh it would. She was so thirsty; had she ever been as thirsty as this in her life? She didn’t think so. She found herself fantasizing about the Crouches’ medicine cabinet. She hadn’t opened it, but she imagined there was at least a bottle of Tylenol. She needed a pill, something that would knock the grinding from her joints. She shifted again, sweat breaking out on her face. They would sleep eventually, and that’s when she’d sneak out.

The closet was roughly five feet by seven feet and carpeted. It was cream-colored and newly installed—she could see the flecks of rug the contractors had left behind when they cut it to size. She picked up a curl of carpet and rolled it between her fingers. She shimmied even lower until she was lying on her side, her knees curled up to her chest. The golf bag was to her back now, and Juno could see underneath the closet door to the faint light of the entryway. She could see the boys’ sneakers lined up as well as a pair of muddy cleats and flats that she presumed belonged to Winnie. She thought to check the pockets of the golf bag—maybe Nigel kept a bottle of Advil in there—but it hurt less to lie still; even the tiniest movement jarred the pain. She was still for so long that she fell asleep again.

The next time Juno woke she knew where she was right away. The smell of the carpet, fresh carpet—she still had the thread in her hand, the little curl. The light in the entryway was off, the closet filled with deep darkness. She moved her leg first, testing the stiffness. It was bad, but not as bad as it could be. She rolled onto her belly, huffing with the effort, and then slowly rose to her knees, keeping her head lowered in case she got light-headed. You learned tricks like that when you couldn’t afford the medication. Tricks to survive, tricks to make things easier, but never tricks to make the pain go away—that, only the pills could do.

She could stand. She took a minute to regain her balance and reached for the doorknob. The door was a well-oiled thing and didn’t make a sound as she opened it. Her heart would wake everyone up; Juno could hear it ringing like a bell in her ears. She stepped into the foyer, keeping her eyes on the door to the living room. If someone came through, she’d be able to see them first, but there would be nowhere to hide. Relax, she told herself, the boys are sleeping, Winnie and Nigel are sleeping. But she had no concept of time; she could have been in that closet for two days for all she knew. She’d passed out for large chunks of time before, often not in the most desirable of places.

She took steps toward the front door, the wood floors creaking under her feet as she went. And there it was. She hadn’t noticed it, and why would she have? None of this was supposed to have happened. There above the light switch was a little keypad. Juno took a step toward it; maybe they didn’t put it on tonight on account of the boys being in the house. But there above the number pad was a red light, and the words below it read: ARMED.

Her eyes moved to the door. If she bolted, she could probably get across the street to the park before anyone saw her—couldn’t she? She had to try; Juno walked decidedly for the door. She had to grind her teeth to keep from crying out. The pain wasn’t humming anymore, it was death-metal screaming. Juno had to relieve herself. She’d seen a bathroom, just around the way. She’d be quiet; boys slept hard. It was that or—she didn’t want to think about it.

Creeping along the wall, she passed the kitchen, moving away from the family room. Under the recess of the stairs was a small half bath. She didn’t turn the light on, and she only closed the door enough to shield her from being seen first.

The splash was loud. She tried to get everything done as quickly as possible, and then she was hoisting her pants up. Before she left, she opened the tap and bent her head to drink straight from the stream of water. She slipped noiselessly from the bathroom, once again passing the kitchen, but instead of turning toward the door she walked straight to the family room, her left shoulder brushing lightly along the wall.

Before she reached the family room, she spotted the blue glow of the TV. She listened for voices, even a snore, but there were no sounds—just the bouncing light of the TV on mute. She took a breath and looked around the wall. Two lumps lay under a mound of blankets on the floor and a third lay on the couch—that one was Sam. Juno could see the sandy hair in the TV’s glow. She didn’t move a muscle, but her eyes roved to the other side of the room. A table was set up, a light blue tablecloth spread over it. A sign that said Happy Birthday Samuel hung on the wall over the table in metallic blue letters. Juno could see the remains of a birthday cake—the side that Winnie had cut neatly into, and the side the boys had torn chunks out of when they went back for more. She was hungry; when had she eaten last? The sandwich outside on the wall; that had been yesterday, and she’d eaten that apple. She looked at the three mounds again, in a sugar and social exhaustion coma, and stepped lightly to the table.

Juno ate cake with her hands, great big chunks of it. It hit her stomach like a grenade. The frosting was blue and green like the Seahawks—no, Sam was a soccer kid—the Sounders.

There was a bowl of chips next to the cake (Juno didn’t dare eat those; they would crunch too loudly) and a tray of sandwiches sliced into little triangles. She took a plate, piled as many on as she could, and carried them back to the closet to wait.

No one opened the closet the next morning; she was so sure that Nigel Crouch would come to retrieve his golf clubs or Sam would get the itch to play one of the board games stacked on the shelves above her head. But no one came. The boys noisily ate breakfast, and they were picked up promptly at ten o’ clock by mothers who didn’t push their luck. Juno lay hidden behind the ski suits and winter coats as each of the boys said goodbye, her head resting on one of those airplane pillows. If someone were to open the door to her little hideout and really look, they’d spot her easily, but no one was looking. Her pain wasn’t any better, but her comfort was. She was ashamed to admit that lying on the freshly carpeted floor of the Crouches’ closet was the most comfortable place she’d slept in over a year.

After all of Sam’s little friends were gone, the family collected their shoes from the foyer.