The mansion had one hundred rooms. Tina knew this because she had counted them once during a dramatic phase at nineteen when she declared she would 'map emotional territories through architecture.' Andrew had called it unhinged when she told him about it. She had color-coded the blueprint.
Now, at 5:17 a.m., standing in the center of the east wing hallway with one baby in her arms and her hair doing something deeply offensive to gravity, she regretted ever bragging about the number. Because one hundred rooms meant one hundred places sound could echo. And the baby in her arms had discovered that. The cry bounced off marble and antique wood and tall ceilings like it was testing acoustics for a concert tour. From down the hall, another cry answered. Tina blinked.
"Oh we're doing call and response now?"
