Robbie
I woke to the sound of bones breaking like old wood and the taste of pennies in my mouth.
It wasn’t real. It never is when the room holds still afterward and the ceiling stain above the mattress looks like Ohio and not a snarl. I stared at the stain and counted heartbeats. One, two, three—until the drum in my throat quit trying to escape and became only breath again.
The room over the laundromat had two things going for it: cheap rent and a rattling window unit that could drown out most of the shakes if I turned it to Arctic. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and did the ritual. Knees. Floor. Hands on the ugly carpet. Head down until the world got big enough to stand up in.
I didn’t pray. I made deals.
Day 42. The number I’d scratched into the back of an old bus transfer
