Jilly sat at the table as her father packed their few clothes into a suitcase, a battered old blue one with a broken doo-hickey on one end - duct tape worked just as well as getting a new suitcase , he had told her once. The can of tuna had been polished off. Her father had eaten one spoonful. He said he wasn't that hungry after his long day; he lied, she knew.   The candle flickered and stuttered, grew steady again.  “Are we going to Aunt Belinda’s?“  Aunt Belinda had a small house over...