"I've got it. It's in my wallet."
"Use it if you have to. There are other meetings besides the ones at seven. Don't be too proud to ask for help." He claps me on the shoulder. "You're doing good work here, kid. But you're no good to anyone if you run yourself into the ground first."
I finish my shift without any mistakes that I can see. Small victory.
Afterwards, I walk to Betty's for my evening shift. The late afternoon sun is scorching, beating down on the sidewalk, and I'm sweating through my shirt before I've gone two blocks.
The dinner rush is brutal tonight, a never-ending stream of plates and cups and silverware that seems to multiply faster than I can wash them. But I'm grateful for it. The work keeps my hands busy and my mind quiet, occupied with simple tasks. Scrub, rinse, stack. Scrub, rinse, stack. The rhythm is soothing, mindless. By the time I hang up my apron, I'm exhausted enough that I almost feel normal. Almost human again.
I call Ivan on my walk back to the motel, the phone pressed to my ear, his voice the only thing keeping me tethered.
"Hey," he answers immediately, like he was waiting for the call. "How was your day? You sound tired."
"Long. Busy. The usual." I switch the phone to my other ear, my free hand in my pocket. "How are things on your end? Ready for the big party tomorrow?"
"Rosalyn's been baking all day. The entire house smells like cake and frosting." He laughs, and the sound makes me miss him even more. "Diana changed her mind about the decorations three times today. First, she wanted butterflies, then she wanted stars, now she wants butterfly-stars, whatever that means. And Destiny still wants to know if we can have a piñata shaped like a rocket ship."
"Can you?" I smile despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones.
"Apparently Rosalyn found one online. Some specialty store. It's being delivered tomorrow morning. Crisis averted, disaster prevented."
"Sounds like it's going to be a good day. A really good day for them."
"I wish you could be here," Ivan says. "It doesn't feel right, celebrating without you."
"Those girls need you more than I do right now. Go make it a great birthday for them."
"I know. I miss you so much it hurts though."
"I miss you too," I tell him. "Every single day. Every hour of the day, really."
"How are you really doing, Jay?"
I let out a long sigh. It's hard to hide things from him. "The nightmares are bad again," I admit, because I have to give him something. "They're always bad when you're not here, but this week they've been worse than usual. I keep dreaming about Henderson. About what he did to us. I wish that bastard would get out of my head."
"You did everything you could."
"Don't worry, I'm okay. I'm handling it. I need to get through this weekend, and then it's only one more week until you can come visit, right?"
"Right. One more week. Seven long fucking days. If it gets too bad, if you really need me, call me. I don't care if it's the middle of the party. I don't care if it's three in the morning. You call me and I'll answer. My phone is always with me."
"I will."
"Promise me you'll call if you need help."
"I promise."
We say goodnight, and I walk the rest of the way to the motel alone. The room is dark and empty when I let myself in. I lie down on the bed without turning on the lights and close my eyes.
The nightmare finds me within minutes.
It's the barn again, but everything is wrong, distorted. The walls are too close, pressing in, the ceiling too low and getting lower. And Henderson is there, standing in the doorway with the belt coiled in his hand like a snake. His face is flushed dark red, his eyes bright with that terrible excitement I remember so well, that awful eagerness.
"Your turn," he says. "You know you deserve punishment, Jay. You've always deserved this."
I try to run, but my legs won't move. They're frozen, locked in place. I try to scream for help, but no sound comes out. My throat is paralyzed.
Henderson moves closer, and I can see the way his breathing has changed, faster and shallow, excited. The way his tongue darts out to wethis lips. The way his pupils are dilated, huge and black. He's enjoying this. He's always enjoyed it. That's what made it so much worse than just pain—knowing that our suffering gave him pleasure, that he needed it the way other people need food or water or air to breathe.
