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They were in the laundry room because it felt less like a confrontation than the kitchen. The dryer hummed a steady, indifferent drum, outside, rain spat at the windows. Isha sat on the low folding table, knees hugged, jaw clenched — always ready to snap. Her mother Jinx kept her hands busy stuffing a sock into a drawer, thumbs worrying at the fabric like she could smooth the world.