I can hardly contain the glee as I activate the intercom one more time.
“You may begin.”
CHAPTER 1
I wake with a gasp, lurching up so fast I smash my head on the ceiling of my car. You’d think after two years of sleeping in my tiny sedan that my body would remember my mattress pad barely allows room for me to sit up, but, apparently, my body is an idiot.
I pull my sleeping bag down and wipe a hand through the condensation on the window. The ShopRite parking lot is empty except for a few cars. A dusting of snow covers the asphalt that wasn’t there when I went to sleep. I scrub my palms down my clammy face.
He’s not here.
But knowing that isn’t making the sensation of the plastic bag from my dream suctioning to my mouth feel any less real, so I close my eyes and focus on breathing. I need to keep moving if I’m going to make it through today. The anniversary of my family’s murder is always the worst day of the year.
I tap my cracked phone screen—4:47 AM. Only thirteen minutes before my alarm would have gone off anyway, so I roll over and poke the lump of warmth curled against my back.
“Morning, killer.”
Bob snaps his head up, and I immediately smile. To most people, my Chihuahua probably looks like four pounds of rage with a Napoleon complex, but he’s actually the most anxious creature I’ve ever known.
“You need to pee?”
The cold wind cuts through my sweatshirt as I step out of the car and shrug on Dad’s old Carhartt jacket. The canvas is worn at the elbows from years of use. It used to smell like him, like motoroil and that drugstore aftershave he’d buy. Now it smells like me, but I still pretend he’s hugging me every time I put it on.
I carry Bob to the closest patch of wood chips. His tiny body trembles as he does his usual routine of sniffing every single molecule before committing to the perfect spot.
After he’s done conducting his very important business, I zip him into his dog coat, this soft red puffer that makes him look like a tomato, because he gets cold easily once he’s out of my sleeping bag. He glares up at me like I’m trying to murder him, instead of keeping his ungrateful self from turning into a Chihuahua popsicle.
Back in the car, I clean my face and neck with baby wipes and spray some dry shampoo in my hair. The can hisses sadly. I unearth yesterday’s bra and give it a sniff (still passable), pull on a clean T-shirt, and unfold my work jeans.
After running a brush through my hair, I climb into the driver’s seat to flip down the visor so I don’t accidentally poke myself in the eye with my mascara wand. It’s been eight years since Dad died, and, somehow, I’m still here despite his blue eyes staring back at me every time I need a mirror.
I sweep mascara over my lashes, trying not to look too hard at Dad’s eyes as I do it. Or at Mom’s thin black hair framing my pale face. Or at the same wide mouth Rosie had. Mom’s freckles sprinkle my cheeks. I inherited Dad’s height. At five-nine, I’m only a couple of inches shorter than he was. I try not to think too hard about any of those things because paying attention to them makes me feel less like a person and more like a patchwork of dead people stitched together, pretending to be a whole person.
The wand slips, smearing makeup across my cheek. The car’s too small. The air’s too thin. I can’t breathe. I can’t…
I wrap one arm around myself and lean forward until the pressure digs into me. I want Mom. I want her to run her fingers through my hair and tell me I’m okay the way she used to whenI was sick or scared. I want her warm hands and her nurse voice, encouraging and steady, the one that made every problem feel like it had a solution.
Bob licks my chin. I pull him against me to ground myself in him and fumble for Dad’s dog tags under my T-shirt. The metal edges bite into my palm, the pain pulling me back to now. To this car. Not there. Not then.
Here.
I wipe the mascara off my cheek, tie my hair into a ponytail, and slam the sun visor up before my reflection can betray me again. I know better than to look at myself for too long. Especially today.
Which leaves me only one way to check that I’m presentable. I glance down at my emotional support Chihuahua. “So? How do I look?”
He yawns.
“Thanks for the honesty, I guess.” I lift him off my lap. He spins around to face me, and I stare into those bug eyes I love more than anything in the world. “Ready to begin this super awesome day?”
I pull up to the construction site early. Some guys are already here setting up for the day, their breath clouding in the morning light as they huddle around a lone propane heater.
I scrape the last dregs of peanut butter in my stash onto cold bread, eat the sandwich in three bites, and wash it down with cold water from a plastic bottle that’s been rolling around my car for at least two days. I pour some kibble for Bob. The stuff costs as much as I spend on my own meals, but it’s good for him, and he doesn’t eat much.
Bob turns up his nose at the kibble. His standards remain impressively high for a dog who would otherwise be eating garbage.
“Please try not to bark while I’m gone,” I ask. “And if you need to pee, at least aim for the newspaper.”
Even though I come back to let him out every two hours, he’s ten and has a bladder the size of a walnut, so it’s not the most reliable.
