Nora had learned young that her house had two layers. The outside layer was holiday tables, the smell of apple pie, the good dishes when neighbors came over, her father speaking about values, and her mother laughing a little louder than she felt. The inside layer was footsteps in the hallway at the wrong hour, doorknobs turning slowly, nights when you listened to your own breathing to check if it sounded too loud, and the feeling that your room was never truly yours.