30
After an impressive number of stitches have been looped through the chewed flesh on the pinky and ring fingers of Holden’s left hand, he’s loaded with antibiotics and released to my care, doped up on OxyContin. He slurs the instructions to his parents’ house. Perfect—even though it’s technically my fault that he was Fang’s chew toy today, I don’t feel like playing nursemaid. Not tonight.
My apartment is dark and cold without Gretchen buzzing around and the stereo on and her laptop glowing. I chirp involuntarily when I step around the room divider and see a body sitting on the couch.
“Mom? What are you doing here?” Quack is sprawled across Sheila Dandy’s lap, purring. Of course she is. “And how did you get in?”
“Those hippies who live downstairs gave me your key. They didn’t even ask
