By Monday, the apartment had stopped feeling like a home and started feeling like a concession cell. Every object sounded to be saying commodity. Not politely. Loudly. The water cleaner hummed with purpose. The demitasse vase caught light and threw it back aggressively, as if offended it was n’t being respected enough. The family tree leaned against the wall, still continuing old arguments just by being. Arjun stepped over a toolbox to reach the lounge and murmured, “ We’re one gift down from demanding a storehouse unit. ” Naila did n’t respond. She was gaping at her phone, scrolling through dispatches that all asked the same question