The Phantom Under the Rain

At every gathering, Vivian had a parlor game.

She called it the Truth Box. To anyone else, it was just a sleek lacquer container passed around over craft cocktails to liven up the room, but we both knew what it actually was: a pillory built specifically for me.

I was the stray she had picked up—an orphan whose university tuition and living expenses had been funded entirely by her philanthropy. And every single time the box landed in my lap, the slip of paper I drew held the exact same neat, slanted handwriting.

*Does dumpster food from the group home taste better than prime rib?*