No Dad.
No anyone.
Just me, a locked door, and the knowledge that if Shadow doesn’t come back, I have exactly one can of pepper spray and a very passionate will to live.
A knock hits the door.
I leap to my feet.
“Who is it?” My voice comes out too high.
A pause.
Then, from the other side, low and dry, “Man you bit.”
My shoulders drop.
Then I hate that they drop.
I move the chair, unhook the chain, and crack the door open with the pepper spray aimed through the gap.
Shadow looks down at the can.
Then at me.
“You planning to season me?”
“I’m keeping options open.”
His mouth twitches. He lifts his hands, both full of snacks and water bottles. “Food.”
I open the door wider. “That is a horrifying amount of vending machine cuisine.”
“You hungry or picky?”
“Both, actually.”
He steps inside, and the room gets smaller.
It’s immediate. Ridiculous. Scientifically unfair.
He is too big for this room. Too broad for the doorway, too dark for the light, too alive for the stale air. He sets the snacks on the table like he’s unloading supplies before a siege.
Chips. Crackers. Peanut butter cups. Granola bars. Two bottles of water. A packet of cookies shaped like animals.
After I let him in, I drift back toward the tiny table because it feels safer than the bed and less ridiculous than hiding behind the chair again.
I pick up the cookies. “Are these for me or did you panic?”
“They had protein.”
I stare at the tiny bear on the package.
“This is a cookie.”
“Eat.”
“You have a very limited range of conversation.”
