I rented a small room in a shared house three weeks after I moved out.
The house belonged to a retired music teacher named Mrs. Bell, who rented two bedrooms to people passing through Bellwether for work or school. My room had a slanted ceiling, one narrow window, and a radiator that clanked whenever the heat came on. I signed a month-to-month agreement and carried my boxes up the stairs one at a time.
The first night, I ate soup from a mug because I hadn't unpacked my dishes. I sat on the floor with my back against the wall and listened to the unfamiliar sounds of the house: a faucet running downstairs, a television murmuring through the floor, Mrs. Bell's dog scratching at a door.
I had wanted to live alone. I couldn't afford it yet.
At therapy, I told Dr. Keene about the calls first
