I chew on a blueberry muffin, its texture like dense styrofoam, and wash it down with a questionable carton of milk. The inked expiration date is smudged down the side, but it smells fine. Fine for lukewarm milk, at least, but I need to catch up on my calories and calcium and protein deficits from yesterday. Corinna sits in the driver’s seat and bites into a red delicious, those too-red, waxy apples, then makes a face suggesting it doesn’t live up to its name. She wipes her mouth with the newspaper in her hand. The g*n still rests in her lap.
I stretch out in the back seat and prop my elbows up on the middle console. The insides of my head feel jittery, and not just from my sugar-laden breakfast. Despite me trying to ignore it, I know why my focus is fraying. My medicine. It’s early in th
