Fiona looks up at him, in that moment, as though distant planets of which she's never heard orbit around his whims. She wants to say, no, don't do it, don't clean up my messes. But more damning is the fact that they need to be cleaned, and she can't do it herself.

Her shoulders slacken. "You- you can do something about this?"

For once, her conniving creativity fails her. What can they do? Her family's problems, so distant and impossible to interact with, always feel like a wall built up around her, the open spaces closing in until no light is left.