Page 17 of The Bratva King

I swallow. “No.”

He nods. “Yeah, I do. You work at the casino, right?”

“Look, I’m just trying to get some groceries,” I tell him.

“Let me get your number.”

“No.”

He laughs. “You’re cold.”

I don’t dare turn my back on him, but I do take a few steps backward.

“I need you to leave me alone,” I tell him.

He scoffs. “Whatever. No need to freak out.”

I stare at him until he walks away.

I relax, release the bear spray, and turn around. “Alright, let’s finish shopping.”

I grab the chicken nuggets, a bag of frozen peas because I can stretch those across several meals, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a carton of eggs. I stand in the cereal aisle for a long moment, looking at the box of the dinosaur cereal he likes, which costs a dollar fifty more than the store brand. I put the store brand in the cart. Then I stand there another second and swap it back for the dinosaur one.

He’s four. He can have the dinosaur cereal. The kid doesn’t get new clothes or even Netflix. He gets dinosaur fucking cereal.

I put back the yogurt I’d grabbed for myself. And the granola bars. I don’t need them. I can have a peanut butter sandwich.

I watch the numbers climb on the register screen at the checkout and do the quiet math in my head. I’m silently praying it’s not more than the cash I have in my purse.

There was a time that I never looked at a price tag. A life that allowed me to walk into a grocery store, or send someone in for me, and the word “budget” didn’t exist. I grew up in a penthouse in Manhattan, with six bedrooms and a housekeeper named Rosa. Then it was to the brownstone with a summer house in the Hamptons and a closet full of things that cost more than I made in a year.

And the price for all of it was paid in a currency I can’t put a word to without feeling sick.

I’d take cockroaches and chicken nuggets and store-brand everything over one more day of that life. I’d take my shitty car and not think twice.

I count out the cash from the tips I earned and almost cry when I have eighty cents left over.

I give Luke the lightest bag to carry. I’m trying to teach him responsibility. I scan the parking lot. The guy in the grocery store spooked me. I am alone in the world. When I left the witness protection program six months ago, I thought I was ready. I did it because I wanted to put down roots, and they had me moving every six months, landing in tiny towns with no resources for my son.

And now, I was on my own. If someone recognized me, it was up to me to find somewhere else to run to. That would be hard to do with eighty cents to my name.

I double-lock the door as soon as we step inside at home. “Stay here,” I tell Luke.

I do a sweep. Bathroom, closet, behind the shower curtain. Luke stands in front of the door and watches me do it. He never asks questions about the checking. It’s part of our life.

I set the grocery bags on the counter and start putting things away. Luke settles on the far end of the couch in his little blanket nest. It’s too hot for it, but that doesn’t bother him. The window unit rattles and hums. The apartment is eighty-two degrees. It’s the best it’s going to get.

He’s wrapped in his soft minky blanket. The one Greg sent him for Christmas. He’s got several similar ones, but he loves that one the most.

He doesn’t need it for warmth. He needs it the way I need to check the locks. It settles him.

“Nuggets in twenty minutes,” I tell him.

He nods without looking up from the book he’s pulled into his lap, tracing the outline of a stegosaurus with one small finger.

I go back to the kitchen and start the oven. While it preheats, I stand at the counter with a glass of water, staring at the toaster and thinking about the cockroach from last night. I haven’t seen another one today. That means nothing. They’re patient. They outlived the dinosaurs, and they’ll outlive me.

I make myself a peanut butter sandwich and eat it standing at the counter.