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She consents and I grab my tablet, snapping the pictures. It’s not that I’ll ever forget what her back looks like, but this way I can draw over them when I’m sketching. As soon as I’m done, she spins to face me, the hem of her shirt slipping from my fingers.

“So, you’ll really do it?” she asks, pleading. She’s never given me such earnest eye contact.

“Yeah,” I gruff. “I’ve got you.”

As soon as I get home, I throw my bag down and carry the pizza box through the house toward the back door. The porch light flicks on, and I’m met with crisp cool air as I step outside. Taking a seat, I light the spliff in my hand, the ember glowing when I take a long drag. With the exhale, the events of the day loosen their claws from my thoughts and disappear into the night.

Balancing the cardboard box in one hand, I flip it open and take a bite of the first slice. There’s no usual order for me, I just let the guys at the local pizza shop make whatever they feel like, or give me whatever the pizza of the day is. It’s a fun little surprise every week.

Out of the corner of my eye a small gray animal lumbers toward me. “Evening, Debra,” I say as she laps from the water dish I laid out earlier before work. She showed up about nine months ago as a young possum looking for food and shelter and I gave it to her because I understand those feelings all too well. She’ll always have a home here—she probably is more comfortable here than I am, even though I purchased the property two years ago. It’s not the house’s fault; I’m not sure I’ll feel settled anywhere, it’s not in my nature. I toss her a slice.

The round gray possum moseys closer and I sit; she rubs her head against my ankle, chirping before she turns back for the slice of pizza on the ground. She’s chomping happily while showing her sharp teeth.

“We gotta work on you chewing with your mouth open,” I mutter, then sigh. “So, how was your day?”

She stares at me while gnawing her way through the chewy crust.

“Glad to hear it,” I tell her. We finish our slices around the same time, and Debra climbs the porch steps, sitting next to me. I take another pull and flick the spliff, ashing the tip away from her. “So Anna came in today. Remember how I said it was going to be her last appointment? Well . . . it’s not.”

Another drag.

“I actually got her to talk to me, which was . . . new. The lotus turned out great, by the way, thanks for asking. Anyway, before she left, she mentioned commissioning a cover-up piece.” I shake my head. “I knew there was something about her.”

Peeling away another slice with my free hand, I hold it out to Debra. Her small pink paws pry my fingers away from it as she politely accepts my offering.

“Yeah, I also thought she meant a tattoo cover-up, but it’s a scar. A fucked-up one, too.”

I dust crumbs off my jeans and dig out my phone, finding the synced folder from my tablet and pulling up the photo. The same anger climbs my ribs toward my heart. It’s like I’ve developed a soft spot for her already. “Needless to say, I’ve got a new project. I might not be home as often, but don’t you worry. I’ll get you set up with an automatic feeder so you can get food either way.”

Thor enjoys woodworking, and I’ve already got him building a house for Debra so she can stay warm.

“Nah, I’m not reporting it to anyone. The scars look old.”

She lifts her chin.

“I don’t know, it just feels different. More personal maybe.” I want to handle this on my own. I want to exact revenge on my own.

Debra finishes up her dinner and rubs up against my leg; I pet her and she chirps before ambling off to go do whatever she gets up to at night.

“Good talk, Deb.”

After finishing up my evening smoke, I head inside. The light in the kitchen is on, but that’s about as cozy as it gets here. My place is a two-bedroom starter house that looks like someone forgot to finish moving in. Two years later, and there are still boxes I haven’t unpacked. I don’t quite know what causes me to operate like this; I guess I haven’t unpacked those feelings either. Despite having a mortgage, it feels safer to keep things in boxes if I’m not using them.

I don’t require much furniture-wise. A bed, a TV, a sofa, a desk, and a chair. What else is there? My walls are blank because apparently you’re supposed to hang up pictures of family members. I considered putting up stock photography portraits, but that seemed like cheating. I’d say it’s minimalist, but that would imply it’s intentional. Besides, I’d rather spend my money on experiences. It’s not like I spend a lot of time here; I’d rather be exploring. This is just where I sleep and sometimes eat.

I always wanted a place to call home, and technically I have one, but it still feels temporary. I’ve accepted that it’ll always feel that way; most kids who grow up in the foster system would agree. Nothing will ever feel stable, no matter how much I crave that normalcy.

Plucking the tablet off my desk, I drop onto the sofa and open up the synced photo of her back in my design app. We talked about the space on her back, but she’s giving me a lot of creative control. Something tells me this could be the most important tattoo I ever do; it feels more sacred than the others I’ve done lately.

I jot down a couple loose sketches that have been in my mind and then let my hand draw lines freely while Anna plays in and out of my thoughts. Her mannerisms, her voice, the rare smiles. The way she can sit in silence for hours while I draw my needle across her flesh. The baggy sweatshirt she always seems to have with her, like it’s a security blanket. The way she smells of pears and jasmine. The depth of her eyes. Her beauty.

My hand finally pauses and I see that I’ve sketched a large moth across her back. Not only will it help hide the scar, the symbolism is fitting. I don’t yet know the story behind it, regardless, she deserves to feel safe in her skin forever. She survived a mutilation, transformed, and came out beautiful on the other side. But not like a butterfly. Whatever she’s been through isn’t going to leave her with honeyed wings. The pink hair doesn’t fool me; Anna reflects a darker archetype. Deep down I suspect she thrives in the shadows—chasing light in spite of a world that tried to grind her into the dirt.

That’s Anna. She’s a moth.

Even with her quiet nature, I’ve developed a loose profile. We’re quite opposite. I’m loud, I like being the center of attention. She stays silent. I can’t stop moving, she can sit still for hours without fidgeting. I like spontaneous, she’s a planner.

Growing up I was alone plenty and quickly determined that riding solo with my thoughts isn’t my idea of a good time. I tend to get stuck in the past. So I stay busy. I snowboard and ice climb in the winter, wakeboard and skydive in the summer, I work only when I have to and fill the rest of my days with whatever I feel like.