Lena
The house is quiet, save for the rhythmic, mechanical wheeze of Mama’s oxygen concentrator. I’m standing by the kitchen table, the envelope with the coiled snake symbol sitting there like a venomous spider. Every floorboard creak makes me jump.
Mama watches me from her armchair, her eyes clouded but observant. "You’re vibrating, Lena. Like a wire pulled too tight. What happened tonight?"
"Just a weird customer, Mama," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "And the rain. It makes everyone on the road act like a lunatic."
"It’s more than the rain," she says, her voice a fragile rasp. "The air feels heavy. Like it did before your father... before he had to leave. Lena, look at me." I turn, and she reaches out a trembling hand. "Be cautious. There are men who look for cracks in peopl
