Paper Tigers Read Free

sliding her finger between two pages. They wouldn’t budge. At least George’s photo, his face, made the album interesting enough to keep. Behind the spectacles, his eyes gleamed with an intense light, like the look of a caged animal with dusky stripes pacing past the walls of its prison, waiting for a chance to be free.
    Or to attack.

CHAPTER 2
    Three quick little raps of knuckles against wood announced her mother’s arrival, and Alison closed her laptop before opening the door. Her mother bustled through, wrapped in a comforting cloud of gardenias, all smiles and shopping bags. She set down the latter before she pressed her lips to Alison’s unscarred left cheek.
    â€œWait until you see the sweater I bought you,” she said, stepping back. “It might convince you to change out of your pajamas once in a while.”
    â€œPlease. You don’t have to buy me something every time you step foot in the mall,” Alison said. “And my pajamas are perfectly fine. You’re the one who bought them for me anyway.”
    â€œHush. I can buy my daughter a present if I want to. Are you sure I bought those?”
    â€œYes, I’m sure. Remember? I asked you to after I saw them online.”
    â€œHmm,” she muttered. “Monkey pajamas. What every well-dressed twenty-four year old woman is wearing these days.” She glanced over at the laptop. “How are your friends?”
    â€œThey’re fine,” Alison said.
    A shred of guilt wormed its way in, turning the words bitter. For a few months after her release from the hospital, she belonged to an online forum for survivors, but once her friends started discussing their reintroduction to society, she deleted her account and all the subsequent emails. And in the year since then, she’d avoided any website that even hinted at human interaction.
    They never spoke of the other friends, the old friends and coworkers
    pushed away
    long gone.
    Her mother stopped in the middle of the living room and sniffed. “What is that smell?”
    â€œWhat smell?”
    â€œIt’s dreadful. Can’t you smell it?”
    â€œI can only smell your perfume. Too much, like always.” She let out a fake cough, hiding a smile behind her hand.
    â€œHush.”
    Her mother pointed at the album. “It’s that, I think.” She fanned the air in front of her face. “Oh, Alison, it’s horrible. It smells like dead, wet leaves. How can you stand it?”
    Alison shrugged. “It doesn’t smell that bad to me. A little musty, but it’s old. I bought it last night.”
    â€œLast night?”
    â€œWell, technically this morning, but yes, I got it from a new shop on 36th Street, one of those places with a handful of antiques and a lot of junk. This was in the window.”
    Her mother stopped with her hand in mid-air. “You went in the shop?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œOh babygirl, I’m so proud of you,” she said, taking Alison’s hands in hers.
    â€œIt was no big deal. I was out walking, and the woman was going in. She saw me looking at the album and said I could come in. She wasn’t open, though. There weren’t any other customers, I mean. Just me.”
    â€œBut you went in?”
    â€œYes, I did.” Tears glittered in her mother’s eyes. Alison gave her hand a small squeeze. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to go out in the middle of the day. I wanted the album.”
    â€œBut it’s a step in the right direction. The next time you go out will be easier and soon—”
    â€œEnough, okay?”
    â€œOkay. Well, show it to me.”
    â€œYou don’t even like them.”
    â€œI’ve never said that. I just think it’s morbid. All those dead strangers. Of all the things you could possibly collect…”
    Alison rolled her eyes but flipped the front cover open. “You’ve said that too, more than once. What can I