NORA
The mess in the camper was just as Nora had expected. Her father was passed out on the banquette, his breath a wet rattle, and an empty bottle of Jim Beam sat on the table. She supposed she should be glad there was only the one. She tried to keep alcohol out of the camper, but he had his friends still: buddies from the mine, high school teammates, and fathers whose sons he’d coached who felt sorry for the man who’d lost his own. They didn’t come often, but they always brought something, and there were hiding places in this tin can Nora would never find. The bottle made a satisfying smash in the trash can by the back door.
She cooked spaghetti and ate it at the kitchen table where she’d eaten as a girl, the three empty chairs as invisible as old friends. Afterward she took a plate an
