The glass cracked first. It was a thin, white line that started at the top left corner of the bathroom mirror and snaked down to the sink. I watched it appear. I did not touch it. I was still holding my toothbrush. My father stood behind me. He was wearing his work clothes. The denim was stiff. The smell of sawdust and pine resin clung to him. It was a smell that lived in the fibers of our home.

"Look at it," he said. His voice was flat. It was the voice he used when he was tired of explaining things. "It is broken."

I looked at my reflection. It was fractured. My face was split into two pieces. One eye looked normal. The other eye looked dead. I tried to blink. The two halves of my face did not move together. They moved separately. I felt a cold drop of water fall from my chin. It was not water. It was sweat.

"You are staring," he said.

"I am looking."

"Stop."

I put the toothbrush in the cup. I turned off the faucet. The water stopped. The silence in the small bathroom was heavy. It pressed against my ears. My father was a big man. He had hands like hams. He worked in the mill. He fixed things. If something was broken, he fixed it. If something was wrong, he corrected it. But he could not fix the glass. He could not fix the way I looked at him.

We went down the stairs. The wood groaned under our feet. The house was quiet. My mother was not home. She was at her sister's house. She was always at her sister's house when my father was angry. The house felt empty. It felt like a mouth with no teeth.

He sat at the kitchen table. He put his elbows on the wood. He looked at his hands. The nails were short. There was dirt under them.

"Did you break it?" he asked.

"I did not touch it."

"Then how?"

"I do not know."

He looked up. His eyes were dark. They were not angry. They were empty. This was worse than anger. Anger had heat. This had ice.

"You are strange," he said.

"I am not strange."

"You are hard to read."

I sat down opposite him. I put my hands on the table. I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him that I was afraid. I wanted to tell him that I saw things in the glass that were not there. I wanted to tell him that the world was getting smaller. But the words would not come. They stuck in my throat.

He stood up. He walked to the pantry. He took out a can of soup. He opened it. The steam rose up. It curled in the air.

"Eat," he said.

I did not have an appetite. I held the spoon. I lifted it to my mouth. The soup was cold. It tasted of tin.

He did not sit down. He stayed by the counter. He watched me eat. It felt like an examination. It felt like a test. If I made a mistake, I would fail. If I failed, I would be gone.

I finished the soup. I put the spoon down. The metal made a small click on the ceramic.

"Go to your room," he said.

I stood up. I walked out of the kitchen. I walked down the hall. The floor was cold. I went to my room. I closed the door. I locked it.

I sat on the bed. The sheets were white. They were stiff. I looked at the wall. There was a crack in the plaster. It was like the crack in the mirror. It was like the crack in my face.

I thought about my mother. I thought about her hands. She had soft hands. She used to braid my hair. She used to sing to me. She did not sing anymore. She had stopped singing when the house started to creak. She had stopped singing when my father started to watch me.

I went to the window. The view was of the yard. The grass was brown. The tree was bare. It was late autumn. The leaves were on the ground. They were wet. They looked like dead bugs.

I saw my father through the window. He was standing in the yard. He was looking up at the house. He was looking at my window. I moved back. I hid in the corner.

He stood there for a long time. He did not move. He was a statue. He was a shadow.

I thought about the mirror. I thought about the two faces. I thought about the one that was normal. I thought about the one that was dead. I wondered which one was me. I wondered which one he saw.

I did not sleep that night. I lay in the dark. I listened to the house. The pipes clanked. The floorboards sighed. The wind whispered. It sounded like voices. It sounded like warnings.

In the morning, the crack in the mirror had spread. It went all the way across. It was a web. It was a spider's trap.

My father was at the table. He was drinking coffee. He did not look at me. He did not speak. I sat down. I ate my toast. I chewed. I swallowed.

"Come with me," he said.

I stood up. I followed him out the back door. He walked to the garage. He opened the door. The car was there. It was old. It was red. The paint was peeling.

He opened the trunk. He put a box inside. It was a wooden box. It was small. It was locked.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Leave it," he said.

He got in the driver's seat. I got in the passenger seat. He started the engine. The car shook. It moved out of the drive.

He drove for a long time. He did not speak. I watched the road. The trees passed by. The fields passed by. The sky was gray. It was a flat, heavy gray.

He stopped at a building. It was a large stone building. It had a gate. It had a sign. It said The Institute.

He parked the car. He turned off the engine. He did not move. He sat still. His hands were on the wheel. His knuckles were white.

"We are going in," he said.

"I do not want to go in."

"You are going in."

He got out. He opened my door. He pulled me out. I was light. He held my arm. He dragged me to the gate.

The gate was open. Two men stood there. They wore gray coats. They had faces like stones. They looked at me. They looked at my father.

"Is this him?" one of the men asked.

"He is," my father said.

"Can we help him?"

"I do not know," my father said. "I cannot fix it."

The men looked at me. They saw my face. They saw the fear in my eyes. They saw the strange way I held my shoulders.

"Bring him in," one of the men said.

My father pushed me toward them. I did not fight. I walked. I felt his hand on my back. It was a gentle push. It was a goodbye.

I went inside. The building was cold. The walls were white. The floor was tile. It was clean. It was too clean.

They took my coat. They took my shoes. They put me in a white room. The room had a bed. The bed had a white sheet. The window was high. It was barred.

I sat on the bed. I waited. I did not cry. I did not scream. I felt nothing. I felt empty. I felt like the crack in the glass. I was broken.

Days passed. I do not know how many. Time was a blur. The men came and went. They asked me questions. I answered them. They asked me about my thoughts. I told them I had none. They asked me about my feelings. I told them I felt cold.

They gave me pills. The pills made me sleep. The sleep was deep. The sleep was black. I did not dream. I did not wake. I just existed.

One day, the door opened. My father walked in. He looked different. He looked thinner. His clothes were dirty. He had a bag.

"Come with me," he said.

I stood up. I did not move.

"Come," he said again.

I walked to him. He touched my face. His hand was warm. It was the first warm thing I had felt in a long time.

"Let's go home," he said.

We walked out of the building. The sun was bright. It hurt my eyes. I squinted. The air was sweet. It smelled of rain.

We walked to the car. He put the box in the trunk. He started the engine. He drove. He drove fast.

We did not stop until we were at our house. The house was dark. The windows were black. The yard was overgrown.

He took me inside. He lit a lamp. The light was yellow. It was soft.

"Go to bed," he said.

I went to my room. I closed the door. I lay on the bed. The sheets were white. They were soft.

I heard him in the kitchen. I heard him moving. I heard him crying.

I closed my eyes. I thought about the mirror. I thought about the crack. I thought about the two faces.

I realized that the crack was not in the glass. The crack was in me. The crack was in the world. The crack was in the idea that things could be fixed.

The world was broken. It was always broken. We just pretended it was whole.

I listened to my father cry. I did not go to him. I stayed in my room. I stayed in the dark. I stayed with the silence.

The silence was my home. The silence was my truth. I was alone. I was free. I was gone.