When she dies she leaves the uncles and aunts and his mother the house to sell and split the proceeds. She leaves everything else to the granddaughter she always played favorites with, who has the grace to look embarrassed at the reading of the will. It's less scary now. He is grown up. The stories they frightened him with at childhood holiday parties have lost their bite and seem silly now. His dog sleeps in the hallway. She never did like dogs; she kicked a puppy once, hard. Hard enough to hurt. She is gone, but he hopes the dog shits on her carpet. He opens the door.