Excerpt from “Inside, Everything is an Engine,” by Tom Dunford

"Julienne broke again," one of them, Abraham or Nora, told their mother. Esther shut the photo album she had been looking at, sighed, asked, "How bad it is this time? How did it happen?"
"She was just dancing and she tripped and fell."
"Smashed to smithereens," one of them—Abraham—added.
"But it wasn't our fault."
"We weren't even there when it happened."
"Don't only stand there," she snapped. "Go sweep the pieces into a paper bag and bring them to me. I'll have them glued back together."
The children were liars, Esther knew. They were jealous of Julienne, because she was so special and different. "Julienne is fragile," she often reminded Abraham and Nora. "We must treat her with extra care."
Late in the evening Esther put her ear against the attic door. She could distinguish sounds from the other side of the door: a pencil falling to the floor, a curse, the scrape of the chair. She rapped her knuckles against the door; her knock sounded like an abrupt cough.
"What?" a voice demanded from behind the door.
"It's me, Dorian. Esther. Were you asleep? I can come back." She touched the doorknob.
"I'm up," Dorian said.
"It's Julienne. She broke again. It's bad this time, too. I don't think you can fix her."
There was no answer, so Esther knocked again, louder this time. "Dorian? Are you awake?"
"Of course I am." A pause, the sound of footsteps, a book slammed shut. "Send her up in the basket. She can be fixed. I can glue her back together."
"All right, Dorian. I'll just send her up in the basket then, all right?" She took one step down, then called out, "Do you want me to read the letter from our Thomas that came in the mail today? I have it with me."
"No, Mother. Don't."