I’m going to make it, and I’m going to make it my way.
And with that, she piled all her work and her laptop on the nightstand, turned off the light, and willed herself to go to sleep.
CHAPTER 6
Devon
The sound was soft at first, then louder, calling to him in the underwater world of his dreams. Devon buried his head deeper in his pillows, but he couldn’t ignore it.
Then came the slam of the car door, the chirp of the alarm.
He’d know that sound anywhere.
Uncle Terrence.
Quickly Devon slipped out of bed and to the door of his room, listening. Maybe he’d dreamed it. He ducked his head around the corner, peered into Memaw’s room. Faint snores, then a long stop, then snores again.
Outside, he could hear the crunch of shoes on gravel, the telltale pop of twigs. For a moment, he debated sliding the deadbolt, keeping him out, but he knew Uncle T would only pound on the door, hard, then harder, then holler until he woke Memaw and the neighbors and anyone else within earshot.
If he let him in now, maybe Memaw would at least stay asleep till morning.
“Uncle Terrence?” He crept to the door, whispered.
The sound of cursing echoed faintly from behind the door as his uncle dropped something, scrambled for it.
Devon sighed, switched on the porch light. He turned the lock, creaked open the door.
“Ain’t you s’posed to be ’sleep?” Uncle T said, squinting his eyes at the light.
“Woke up to go to the bathroom and heard your car.” Devon stepped back to let him in, then bolted the door after him and stepped aside, keeping a wide gap between them. He knew better than to get within grabbing distance.
T cocked his head, and Devon could smell the night on him—booze and cigarettes, something else sour behind the cologne. He staggered, and Devon realized he was drunk. Or something.
“Memaw’s asleep, Uncle T. Do you need a place to sleep? Want a pillow? Some blankets?”
“Shoo, ain’t tired yet, boy.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarette. “Want one?” T laughed at himself. “Started myself when I was your age, you know what I’m sayin’? What’re you now, fifteen?”
“Eleven. Uncle T, you’re not supposed to be smoking in the house. Memaw’s asthma.”
T sighed, flopped down on the couch, looked around like he was missing something.
Devon waited.
“Wha—where’s the TV?”
“It broke.”
“What the—you don’t have a television?”
“Not anymore, sir.”
T made a face, upped his voice an octave. “‘No, sir.’ Somebody rob y’all? What kind of house is this? Sound like Uncle T need to be steppin’ up round here.”
“Honestly it’s fine.” Devon peered at the wall clock. After twoo’clock. He stifled a yawn. “I’m gonna head to bed. School tomorrow.”
He left T on the sofa muttering and looking at his cell phone. Quietly, he snagged Memaw’s purse from the hall table, tucked it safely in his closet. Last time T came by, his uncle had helped himself to a couple of fifties from her purse, said he’d come back the next day with more. That was weeks ago.
Devon twisted the little lock on his bedroom doorknob and got back under the covers, but sleep wouldn’t come for a long, long time.
