 Everything I never told you. By Celeste Ng. Narrated by Cassandra Campbell. 1. Lydia is dead. But they don't know this yet. 1977, May 3rd, 6.30 in the morning, no one knows anything but this innocuous fact. Lydia is late for breakfast. As always, next to her cereal bowl, her mother has placed a sharpened pencil in Lydia's physics homework. Six problems flagged with small ticks. Driving to work, Lydia's father nudges the dial toward WXKP, northwest Ohio's best news source, vexed by the crackles of static. On the stairs, Lydia's brother yawns, still twined in the tail end of his dream. And in her chair in the corner of the kitchen, Lydia's sister hunches moon-eyed over her corn flakes, sucking them to pieces one by one, waiting for Lydia to appear. It's she who says, at last, Lydia's taking a long time today. Upstairs, Marilyn opens her daughter's door and sees the bed unslept in. Neat hospital corners still pleaded beneath the comforter. Pillow still fluffed and convex. Nothing seems out of place. Mustard-colored corduroy's tangled on the floor. A single rainbow-striped sock. A row of science-fair ribbons on the wall. A postcard of Einstein. Lydia's duffel bag crumpled on the floor of the closet. Lydia's green book bag slouched against her desk. Lydia's bottle of baby soft atop the dresser. A sweet, powdery, loved baby scent still in the air. But no, Lydia. Marilyn closes her eyes. Maybe, when she opens them, Lydia will be there. Covers pulled over her head as usual. Wisps of hair trailing from beneath. A grumpy lump bundled under the bedspread that she'd somehow missed before. I was in the bathroom, mom. I went downstairs for some water. I was lying right here all the time. Of course, when she looks, nothing has changed. The closed curtains glow like a blank television screen. Downstairs, she stops in the doorway of the kitchen. A hand on each side of the frame. Her silence says everything. I'll check outside, she says at last. Maybe, for some reason, she keeps her gaze trained on the floor as she heads for the front door, as if Lydia's footprints might be crushed into the hall runner. Sample complete. Ready to continue?