We’re thrilled to share “Amoxicillin”, a standalone prequel story set in the world of Liz Kerin’s dark fantasy vampire duology. The first novel, Night’s Edge, is available now, and the sequel, First Light, publishes April 23rd with Tor Nightfire.
Reader discretion is advised due to sexual content, blood and gore, religious trauma, and questions surrounding consent.
Author’s Note
This story is based upon characters from the Night’s Edge duology. That being said, you can read this story at any time—whether that’s before you’ve read the books, between the two installments, or after you’ve read them both. Night’s Edge revolves around single mother Izzy, who suffers from an incurable vampiric illness, and her young daughter Mia, who protects her and keeps her secret. The sequel, First Light (April 2024), continues Mia’s journey as she searches for the man who gave her mother a thirst for blood and destroyed their lives.
This story takes place two months before the events of Night’s Edge. Reader discretion is advised due to sexual content, blood and gore, religious trauma, and questions surrounding consent.
AMOXICILLIN
A Night’s Edge short story
“If ye have sought to do wickedly in the days of your probation
Then ye are found unclean before the judgement-seat of God;
And no unclean thing can dwell with God.”
Nephi 10:12, The Book of Mormon
July 5, 2010
Salt Lake City
If you attract the wrong kind of man, then you’re the wrong kind of woman.
If you let him glimpse the animal you are, you’re giving him permission to be one, too. Especially in the beginning. If you want him to call you the next morning—to see you as a whole person—you need to “leave a little to the imagination.” That’s what Mom used to say.
You’ve worked hard to understand this. Still, you keep failing. Failed again last night.
And yet, you somehow knew to take your phone to bed. Expected it to ring. Something in the way he reached for your hand. That cold, electric snap, like waking from a bad dream.
It feels nice, to have expectations again.
“Sorry. You were sleeping—”
“Nah, I heard my phone and I… What’s up?”
“I should’ve texted, I know it’s early. But I didn’t want to wait and I don’t like to text, when it’s important—”
“Oh yeah?” A smile slithers to your lips and wraps itself around your voice.
“What are you doing later?”
You prop yourself against a pillow: an ancient wool throw Mom made when she was a kid, hand-embroidered with a sprig of white daisies. You pick the fraying stitches as a silky shimmer moves through your chest.
“Uh, I’m off work, ‘cuz of the holiday. I was gonna take Mia to this barbecue at my friend Ruby’s this afternoon—”
“I mean tonight.”
* * *
The year Mia was born, Mom would cover the 5AM feeding so you could sleep till 7 and get to work by 8. She’d lie in the recliner with the baby on her chest, murmuring “Sweet girl, sweet girl,” like an incantation over her tiny peach-fuzz head till she fell asleep. Sometimes you’d wake up and listen through the door. Close your eyes and imagine you were still the one in her arms.
You wonder if she said that to you. If she was afraid she didn’t say it enough, like there was a secret number she needed to hit in order to make it true.
The day you told her about the baby, she folded your hands in hers, kissed them, and whispered, “I stopped reading my scriptures when your father died. This is my fault.”
But it wasn’t. You know what’s inside of you: An unkillable blackness that inhales prayers and spits them back out like quills. A hurricane that floods your mouth with ugly words and parts your legs.
You’re either born a sweet girl, or you’re not.
* * *
You love Ruby, but you hate going to her parties. Hate exchanging niceties through grit teeth with all the people you shed a decade ago. You go because of Mia. You also hate how much Mia loves their house. The way she rambles about their trampoline and their hot tub and Chloe’s American Girl collection every time you drive across town. She’s ten; she doesn’t understand how it cuts you. And that’s on purpose. You decided a long time ago that you weren’t going to complain to her because you’d hate to make her think you were complaining about her.
You don’t talk about the things you’ve given up. The friends you left behind. The shifts you took at work that nobody else wanted. Overtime. Double overtime. How exhaustion thickens in your lungs till you’re bent double and want to throw up. But you’ve done okay. Better than anyone expected, anyway.
“We have a hot tub too, y’know.” You meet Mia’s eye in the rearview.
“It’s not the same.”
“Sure it is. Might even be the same brand.”
“The Vaughns don’t have to share it with the neighbors. Also, they clean theirs.”
“They don’t. They have a guy for that.”
Ruby Vaughn was a sweet girl who married a sweet man with an engineering degree from BYU. Their daughter Chloe is no exception. You don’t begrudge Mia’s doe-eyed fascination with their bougie shit because you’re hoping some of that sweetness rubs off on her.
Then again, you and Ruby grew up together. And it didn’t rub off on you.
* * *
“Do you think she might be able to stay for a bit, after the party?” You sidle up to Ruby with a plate of watermelon. “I can pick her up around 10:30.”
“No prob. They’re gonna zonk anyway. Look at ‘em.”
You follow her eyes to the trampoline, ping-ponging with squealing kids.
“Two at a time, Nate! Get down till it’s your turn!” Ruby sighs before her gaze swerves back to yours. “Where you headed? Cooler party than mine?”
“I uh… I met someone.”
She drags her lawn chair in a semicircle so you’re face to face. “Izzy! Way to bury the lead. When?”
“Last night?”
“And you’re seeing him again… tonight?”
You take a moment before answering. You don’t want to talk too loud, in front of these people. Ruby’s friends and family. People you used to see at church. People you’ve known your whole damn life, who have nothing better to do than whisper. Who don’t even wait till your back is turned.
Buy the Book
First Light
You already feel like you’ve said too much. You pull your lower lip into your mouth. It’s starting to scab, but the wound is still fresh.
You can still taste blood.
“It’s too fast, isn’t it—”
“No, no! This is great. You deserve it,” she says, her stare sharpened to a point.
You both know what she means, when she says that.
This kind of behavior was off the table, when Mom was still alive. Part of your agreement. She’d have your back, provided you stayed off of it. But she’ll be gone two years this September.
You’re free now.
“So.” Ruby’s eyes gleam. “Tell me everything.”
The thing about Ruby is she thinks she wants to know everything, but you can’t indulge her. Not if you want to keep her. There’s a part of her that wants to live vicariously through you, like you’re some sort of trashy romance novel she can pick up whenever she’s feeling bored—which is often. A symptom of getting married at nineteen. But your life isn’t fiction. She can’t help but be scandalized whenever she remembers it’s real.
You’ll never forget how it felt to tell her about Benji ten years ago: What happened at the gallery. How it kept happening every time you went to his studio. How his wife knew the whole fucking time and how you knew she knew. When you made Ruby sit on the phone with you while you peed on that stick… it changed things between you. For a long time. Her silence shattered you. When she came back around, she was the only friend you had.
Which is why you won’t tell her about last night. Well, it’s partly that. The other part… you’re still trying to explain the other part.
His gaze snagged yours while he was pacing the parking lot, cradling his phone with a furrowed brow, as though he were looking for someone. You tossed your hair and walked right up to him. Left Mia alone in the dark on your picnic blanket. You don’t know why the hell you did that. How any of this happened. How all the right words bubbled to your lips.
Ya lost?
No, but I think I might’ve lost my family.
Wanna grab a beer and come hang with mine?
You can still feel the muggy air between your bodies as he drew closer, inch by inch, in the black breaths between fireworks. You kissed him, even though Mia was sitting less than six feet away with her back turned. Slid his long, cold fingers into your mouth and up your skirt. When he asked if you were sure, if it was okay, you said yes. You know you said yes. You hear yourself say it, every time you play it over in your head.
Yes.
You feel it, like he carved the word inside of you.
You keep waiting for that inevitable wave of white hot shame, even though you’re pretty sure Mia never saw anything. You know you should feel bad about it. But there’s no room in your head. You’re shocked you had the mental fortitude to put your shoes on the right feet this morning, let alone steer the fucking car with your daughter in the back.
Yes.
You gape at the little popcorn children on the trampoline as you robotically bring a sliver of watermelon to your mouth. But you don’t bite down.
Have you eaten at all today?
Ruby’s brother Greg skulks into your periphery. You feel his hungry gaze before you see him as he shoves a greedy, chlorine-moist hand into a bag of chips on the table beside you.
You hate the way he looks at you. The way he’s always looked at you, since you were little kids. Like you’re made of glass and he can see all that wine-dark wickedness churning under your skin. You shimmy your cutoffs so they lie flat across your thighs and carefully cross your legs. Waiting for him to move off before you say anything else.
Ruby knows well enough to wait, too.
“Uh, well there’s not much to tell, considering we just met last night—” You say once Greg clears out, sucking the salt from his grubby fingers, one by one.
Ruby gawks at you. “Izzy. I’ve been piping frosting and filling water balloons since 7AM. I’m dying over here.”
“I dunno, he’s just a cool guy who’s in town from Colorado visiting his family for a while and uh… yeah. We’re gonna hang out and see where it goes.”
“Where in Colorado?”
“Oh, I don’t—” Do you not remember? Or did you not even ask?
The whole thing feels strange all of a sudden. Wrong. Gooseflesh clings to your skin like a wet coat, blocking out the sun.
You don’t know anything about him. All you got was a name, a bloody lip, and ten vile, gorgeous minutes under a blanket while your daughter watched the fireworks.
But he called. Called because he wants more than that.
Right?
Why else would he call?
“You’re no fun,” Ruby huffs, blowing a wayward curl from her face.
“I mean, it’s new. I don’t know what to say about it yet. Maybe after tonight.”
Ruby’s brows arch as she nods. Like she knows why you’re not spilling the whole story. But of course she does. Ruby knows you—you and the ugly thing you were born with, who asks for ugly things on your behalf.
* * *
He’s driving a dusty silver Mustang with California plates. The back bumper puckers around a sizable dent. You rack your brain, sure he said he was visiting from Colorado last night. But maybe you remembered wrong.
The car smells faintly of cigarettes, like he just tried to air it out. You don’t mind, though. It reminds you of Benji’s studio, where you first learned you didn’t mind that sort of thing.
You buckle your seatbelt and he pulls up a few feet so you’re directly underneath a streetlight. He studies you with an exacting grin and that soft, self-effacing laugh again. The pit of your stomach twitches, freshly shaven skin prickling with heat under your skinny black jeans: the ones you used to wear in art school, with the denim slashed to gills across each knee. You don’t have a lot of new clothes. Don’t have a lot of things you’d wear on a date.
If that’s what this is.
Well, of course it is.
Unless all the choreography has changed, since the last time you did this. Unless—
“Sorry, just wanted to—” He laughs again, eyes bouncing from yours. “Last night it was dark and I couldn’t like, fully appreciate… anyway. Hey.”
“Hi.”
“You look great.”
A spot on your calf throbs, where you cut yourself shaving.
* * *
You’re heading downtown, to a brewery you’ve never heard of. You don’t like to go out, when you drink. You swore you’d never touch alcohol again, after what happened with Benji. Of course, that was ten years ago, back when you were begging for forgiveness at council meetings. Everything is different now. Still, you’d prefer to do it privately: Abottle of wine at home. Mia curled in your lap like a cat. Watching Finding Nemo for the 500th time.
But maybe a drink tonight will help calm your nerves.
It’s funny. You weren’t anxious last night, when you approached him. When you kissed him. Like someone was flashing a script on a teleprompter. Now…
“You grew up around here, yeah?”
“I uh…” Did you tell him that, last night? “Yeah. My parents, too. My grandfather built the house I lived in when I was little.”
“So then… is this cool? Going for drinks, and everything?”
“Oh. I’m not… I don’t belong to the church anymore.”
“Gotcha.”
“As if being single with a kid wasn’t a dead giveaway.” You pluck the threads of your jeans with a caustic laugh.
“I wasn’t gonna pry.”
“Still can’t stand coffee, though.”
He smiles in the dappled yellow of a stoplight as it turns red. “That’s funny. Me neither.”
He holds your gaze as the car stops and the air between you thickens. Like it might not be safe to breathe. A motorcycle outside the window putters in the silence.
You wish he’d say something else.
All of a sudden you’re regretting this. Making such a bold move last night. You know full well that that’s not the right foot to start out on.
Not how you get a boyfriend.
You feel his hand on the back of your neck—that ice cold snap again. He kisses you like a scream. Piercing, frantic, mouth wide open. Something that might have shocked, even frightened, a younger, more timid version of you.
But that’s not who you are anymore. Whoever you are, right now in this electric, alien moment… that’s the person he wants and the person you want to be, more than anything. You scream right back, red light thrumming behind your eyelids. Your whole body softens, bidden by that sweet, heavy ache in your hips, and you’re drunk with certainty that you’re about to do something deliciously stupid.
“Fuck—” He says into your mouth. The shape of the word against your tongue drives a hot spear right through you.
There’s a strange taste there. Warm and silvery.
Blood. That’s blood. If he bit you, you didn’t even feel it.
The light turns green. Your vision is getting hazy for some reason. The light breaks into pieces and starts swirling around you like phosphorescent fireflies.
Two more intersections. Silence in between screams. Your stoned, strobe-like gaze blinks red, yellow, and green. You reach for his belt, but your hand feels numb. Like it isn’t yours.
“Hang on, hang on—”
“Sorry.” Your tight throat goes dry.
Not how you get a boyfriend. Not how—
“No, no, no. I just mean… ” He pulls a labored breath and moves your hand away. His is shaking. “We’re about five minutes from my place. If I turn left up here.”
“Okay.” You don’t even think about it. Like someone just switched that teleprompter back on.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure you’re sure.”
“I said yes.”
He guides your hand back where it was before.
Not how you get a boyfriend.
* * *
It’s obvious that he doesn’t really live here. Just passing through. Which is better, you think, than the kind of man who might want to settle down in a place like this—or worse, someone who’s from here. He doesn’t have to tell you—it’s clear from the tacky fake plants and rustic, desperately aspirational Hobby Lobby wall décor—an apartment owned by someone named Debbie or Louise or something. He keeps it dark, though. And the kitchen is spotless. No cups in the sink, no stains on the white quartz. That’s nice, you think. A man who picks up after himself. But he doesn’t let you linger there long.
“I just want you to know…” You peel your body away with a single, painstaking step as you stand framed in the bedroom door. Your mouth is still swimming with the silvery taste of your own blood. “I don’t like… I don’t do this.”
“It’s okay, y’know. We don’t have to.” His voice sounds muffled and strange, like he’s whispering through a paper tube.
You don’t answer. But you don’t move off, either. Everything inside you is soft and slick and you’re afraid you might lose your balance. You blink, and those phosphorescent fireflies are back in your periphery, circling your heavy head like a crown.
He searches your foggy face, then draws you back in. “But it’s also okay if you want to.”
* * *
When Mia was eight months old, Mom caught Matt Callahan going down on you after you snuck him in through the window at 2AM. He lived down the street and was home from Notre Dame for the summer. You thought Mom would think he was a catch. Didn’t think it would sting her too bad, if she found out you were hooking up. It’s not like you had to worry about your fucking honor anymore.
Four brutal, heart-scorching days passed before she spoke to you again. She fetched Mia for her nighttime feedings and afternoon walks, but didn’t say a word. She finally breached the subject over cold cereal and acrid, past-its-prime OJ the morning of the fifth day.
“I don’t know where you learned the things you think you know about men, Isobel. But it wasn’t from me.”
“Matt’s good guy, Mom—”
“Matt’s not gonna marry you, so I don’t know how you can say that.”
From her high chair, Mia started whimpering.
“Think of your daughter before you think of doing that again.”
You nodded. Choked down the stale juice. And took the baby into your arms.
* * *
Benji and Matt fought you every goddamn time you asked them to use protection.
This time, you don’t have to. He’s prepared. Like he does this a lot. You used to think that was a bad thing. Like everything else that might make you feel good.
He makes space for you on top and waits for you show him you’re ready… even though you both know he’s already tasted it. You square your hips and guide him toward the deepest part of you.
You deserve this. So goddamn much.
You collapse against his chest as his breath hits your neck. “Is this okay?”
You don’t know what he’s talking about. He’s already fucking you.
You just nod. Not sure you heard him correctly.
He asks again, louder this time. Still buried in the crook of your neck. That hollow above your collarbone.
“Baby, I need to hear you say it.”
“It’s… yeah. Of course it’s…”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A sweet, sharp twinge erupts from the place his mouth meets your skin and a satiny gray haze descends in front of your eyes—a sheer curtain of dark tears you can’t blink away.
…Wait.
Something’s not right.
Something’s…
There’s a faraway sound. The moaning ghost of your own voice.
He holds you in place as you slacken: One hand on your hip, the other twisted in your hair. Your tempo changes, lulled into a new sort of gravity. Like an enormous beast is licking you clean.
Your body starts floating in pieces all around you: Beautiful, jagged shards of light falling in slow motion. Self-loathing slips through your fingers like black water.
You catch it on your tongue as if it’s rain.
Copper and honey and cigarette smoke.
You realize you’re sipping from his open mouth, and he’s on top of you now. Or maybe he’s sipping from yours. One of you laughs. You’re not sure who.
…Wait.
A question stabs the space between your lungs. But it doesn’t get past your lips. Past all that smoke and molten copper.
Light hurdles into your eyes, hot and feral. Like you’re pulling the sun toward you on a string.
Yes.
It’s just gray, after that.
* * *
You’re in the old Volvo on a Sunday. Backseat. First Grade. Kindergarten? “Music and the Spoken Word” is on KSL. The Tabernacle Choir sings “Climb Ev’ry Mountain.” You’re picking a scab on your knee.
You saw Ruby’s brother Greg this morning.
“Mommy, what happens if I don’t get into heaven?”
“Don’t say things like that. We’re all going to heaven. As a family.”
“But what if I get left out?”
“I’d never let that happen.”
“Even if I did something bad? And then I died?” You’re crying now.
She doesn’t say anything.
Her blinker clicks as she waits at a light. Tick-Tunk. Tick-Tunk.
You wipe your runny nose on your sleeve. “What’s it feel like?”
“What?”
“To die.”
“There’s no more pain, and then you go to heaven.”
“No, I mean before that.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think it’s like?”
You scratch the scab too hard. Blood pours down your leg.
“Like falling asleep next to someone you love.”
* * *
You blink and the gray falls off like dust.
It’s so dark in here you have to rub your eyes to make sure they’re open.
You’re warm, though. Dressed. Cocooned in a nest of blankets.
You worm to a seated position with a muted groan as the opening chords of a headache pound the space behind your eyes. You’re back in your body… but it’s not a comfort. You’re aching to escape it again. You wish you could gut yourself with a single sharpened nail and throw your entrails against the wall. Watch them slide to the floor in a hot, voluptuous heap.
…What?
A light comes on in the kitchen. You shield your tender gaze from the glare like you’ve just clawed your way out of the womb.
In half a breath, he’s back in the bedroom, sitting next to you. Like he moved with that flicker of light.
You’re still missing time. Gaps between events.
“You okay? You kinda had me worried.”
You suddenly remember that bolt of uncertainty. The question you couldn’t seem to ask.
“I tried to wake you up, but—”
He reaches for your hand, but you’re slow to close your fingers.
Your college suitemate Megan got rufied at a gallery opening sophomore year. You remember the horrifying, underwater sensation she described. The moment she said she was sure the guy made his move. But the two of you haven’t had anything to drink. That’s not what this was.
“Can I get you anything? It’s late, but we could probably order some food—”
You open your mouth, waiting for an answer to lurch from your scratchy throat.
“Izzy?”
He turns on the bedside lamp, and you see he’s placed a glass of water there for you. You meet his gaze, round with concern. The color of his eyes seems darker than it ought to be—a peculiar opacity that makes you wonder if that gray haze is coming back. But when he pivots toward the lamp a second later, green-gold flecks emerge around his pupils and the shadow of his gentle smile comes to rest there. You realize it’s the first time, aside from those two seconds blushing under the streetlamp, that you’ve seen him in the light. Like you’ve been craving a facsimile of his energy without understanding how all his pieces fit.
“Talk to me. You good?”
“I’m uh… sorry, this is gonna sound weird—”
His unassuming laugh washes over you. “Most of my favorite conversations start out that way.”
He offers you the water, but you don’t take it.
“I’m serious. When did I… fall asleep? Exactly?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean was it… during? Or—”
“Oh.” He inches closer. You tighten the wad of blankets around your shoulders. “No. You got dressed and I asked if you were ready to head out but you said you needed to close your eyes for a few minutes.”
You stare into the sheets. Midnight blue with silver stripes. You run your nails between them, two at a time, before you shamble to your feet.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
In the mirror, you see it: a Band-aid at the base of your neck, on the left hand side, where your shoulder starts to curve at a soft incline. You pull the edge, wincing as it protests against your raw flesh.
The wounds are red pinholes with an inch of space between them. Darkness creeps into the surrounding skin, swollen like an overripe plum.
This, you remember. But you don’t remember if it hurt.
Your stomach turns, but instead of somersaulting up your throat it sinks and simmers between your legs.
What the fuck, what the fuck—
You think about your own entrails again, luscious with black blood as they slide down the wall. Your mouth waters, like you can taste it. Copper. Smoke. The smack of your spent bodies.
You feel like you’re still high. Or just dying to feel it again.
Whatever it was.
You study your ruptured flesh in the harsh burn of the vanity light, then smooth the bandage back into place. You didn’t notice before, but the underside is slick with disinfectant.
“I should go,” You say under your breath as you make your way back to the bedroom. Wondering at what point, and where, your shoes were removed from the equation.
You haven’t looked at him. He’s still sitting on the bed where you left him.
“If that’s what you want,” he replies softly. But it’s like he’s tugging your gaze on a fishing line.
When you meet his eye, you know you’ve understood each other. You see your shoe in the corner of the room, but you don’t move toward it. Your stomach makes another stunning turn.
“Do you want to talk?” He asks.
You try to swallow, but it’s like your mouth is full of ash.
“Yeah.”
“C’mere.”
You shuffle toward the bed and sit. Still staring at your shoe across the room. In the silence you scratch the bandage, realizing you’ve caught a strand of your hair in it.
What time is it?
Mia. Oh God.
When did you say you were going to pick up—?
“I think we had a shitty misunderstanding and I don’t want to start things off like this.” This time, when he reaches for your hand, you close your fingers around his.
“Yeah.”
“I really like you.”
“Same.”
“I kinda think… and you can tell me if I’m wrong. I hardly know you. But—” Again, he offers you the water on the nightstand. You take a long drink as he goes on. “When you told me you don’t do stuff like this—like, the way you said it? You just… you seemed upset.”
“It’s hard to explain—”
“And then when we started… I mean, that’s why I got worried. Why I asked if you were okay. ‘Cuz it kinda seemed like you… went someplace else. I dunno.”
Your breath catches. You want to look askance. Away from his face. But you can’t seem to.
“I had this buddy, when I was a kid. And sometimes he would like, slide to a different part of his brain whenever something reminded him of his brother, who died. Like, died right in front of him, in a car accident. Really fucking horrible. Anyway, if anyone ever mentioned his brother he’d kinda stare off into space and start saying a bunch of random bullshit about like, Star Wars or nuclear submarines or whatever. But his mom told everyone to ignore it, that his therapist said he was dissociating and it was totally normal.” He interrogates your vacant stare. “Anyway, I started wondering if maybe that’s what was going on with you.”
You yank that hair from underneath the Band-aid, trying to free it, but it snaps.
“What’s the deal with Mia’s dad? Is he in the picture?”
You don’t know what you thought you were going to talk about, but it wasn’t this.
You shake your head.
“That must have been really hard.”
It’s strange, because you’re sure someone must have said this to you before. But you can’t remember.
“The thing is, I really wanted her,” your voice staggers back to life. “And my mom promised me everything would be okay. But then, when we went and told our bishop I was pregnant, she said I was engaged to be married. Which was an issue. Considering the guy was already married.”
“Shit.”
“I honestly thought he was gonna leave his wife and come live with us. I called him every fucking day for six months. He blocked my number.” You laugh with a hitch in your throat, reaching for that wad of blankets again. He helps you drape the comforter over your shoulders. You didn’t realize you were shivering.
“After that, my mom said I had to go in for council. They made me like… stand up and talk about how it happened. In detail.”
“Who’s they?”
“These… guys. The bishops.”
“That’s fucking awful.”
“Yeah.”
He slides a hand underneath the blanket and rubs your back. Taking time on each vertebrae, working his way up.
Your mind sways to Benji. How he used to fuck you in the mirror, in his studio. You’d avert your gaze, every time. It made you sick to see yourself. You’d stare at the easel or your jeans in a ball on the floor. Count the fibers in the carpet as he coaxed you down on all fours.
You’d leave your body, even though you wanted him to have it.
It never made sense.
This was like that, but it felt good. You don’t hate yourself the way you did back then.
You don’t want to question it anymore. Just want to feel it again.
“You might be right,” you finally say.
“About?”
“How I probably… went somewhere else. Like your friend. I dunno.”
“Listen,” he says with a cold laugh. “Shame is a hell of a drug.” He kisses your brow where that headache was building. It’s gone now. “But you don’t need to feel that way with me. Okay?”
You let him kiss your lips. Not a scream this time. All soft, careful reassurance.
You want to ask about the wound on your neck. You should. But you can’t find the words. And he hasn’t acknowledged it, either.
“H-hang on.” You break the kiss. It’s like swimming upstream. “What time is it?”
There’s no clock in here, and your phone’s in your purse. Wherever that ended up.
“Um…” He gets up and digs his phone from the pocket of his pants on the ground. “6:15?”
You bolt upright. “AM?”
For the first time, you glimpse the heavy blackout curtains on all the windows, edges secured with duct tape. You could’ve slept the whole goddamn day and never known it.
“Holy shit.” You lunge for your shoes in the corner as your chest constricts. “I was supposed to pick up my daughter at 10:30—”
“You got plenty of time—”
“Last night.”
“Oh.”
The bed pulls you like a vortex. You stare at the indentation your body occupied a moment ago. That nest of warm blankets. His mouth.
But there’s something stronger pulling you in the opposite direction. You corkscrew into your shoes. Stumble toward the kitchen. He’s right behind you.
“I’ll drop you off. Just lemme take a shower and I’ll—”
You fish your phone out of your purse on the kitchen counter. 12 missed calls from Ruby.
“No. I need to just… I gotta go. Now. I’ll call a cab.”
“You sure?”
You don’t know why you nod. Of course, you’d rather have him drive you. He should. But for some reason you feel like you’re not supposed to take him up on it. Like there’s dialogue flashing on that teleprompter again.
“Thanks for offering, though.”
* * *
You run home and change before heading to Ruby’s house, even though it’s going to make you even later. You try your best with some makeup on your neck; the bandage draws too much attention. But the wound’s still too fresh and the concealer refuses to stick. You opt for one of your work button-downs, fastened all the way to the top.
Thankfully, Ruby’s too frazzled getting her brood ready for summer camp to chew you out like you deserve.
“I’m just glad you’re okay. Don’t do that again. You scared me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t want to drive till I’d sobered up and I lost my phone at the bar.”
You’d rather lie about getting shitfaced and be judged for it than answer any questions about what you did instead. Not when you still have so many of your own.
Mia darts down the hall and hugs you, rustling the fabric around your neck. Your throat tenses, like a serrated blade is carving the corners of your wound.
“Wanna grab a bite, before you guys head out?” Ruby stands at the stately kitchen island, holding a banana in one hand and a yogurt in the other.
“I’m not hungry.”
* * *
Mia kicks the back of your seat as you drive. Thump, thump, thump.
“I need to go home and get my beads, for camp.”
“We don’t have time, we’re going straight there.”
“Mom, it’s Tuesday. I always bring them on Tuesday, that’s when we make jewelry. Remember?”
“Well, tell everyone you’re sorry and it’s my fault.”
You feel her sneering at your back. Thump, thump, thump.
“Where were you?”
You don’t answer right away. Thump, thump—
“Mia.”
“Sorry.”
You shift your weight. Pain pours from your neck down the front of your body, slow like sap.
“What’d you think of that guy, the other night?” You ask. Studying her reaction in the rearview mirror.
“What guy?” As if there were anyone else you could possibly be referring to.
“Devon.”
“Oh. From the fireworks?”
“Yes.”
She squirms with a frown. Redirects her gaze out the window.
“He was weird.”
“Mia.”
“You asked me what I thought.”
You fight the urge to snap back. Like you don’t know exactly who taught her how to spar like that.
“Is that where you were?” She asks after a moment. Quieter now. Her small voice winds its way around your heart.
“I won’t be late again. I promise.”
She doesn’t reply. Just keeps staring out the window. Your collar itches.
You flip your mirror down as you roll toward a stoplight, and your eyes jerk to a pin-sized bloodstain seething through the fibers of your shirt.
From your purse, your phone vibrates.
* * *
You sit in the parking lot at work. You know you should eat something before you start your shift, but you’re still not hungry.
Hey im sry again if that was weird for u
im around tho, if u wanna hang again sometime. u let me know ok?
The messages throb at you.
You don’t want to go inside. Not till you’ve made a decision.
None of this was weird till a shrill little voice in your head started telling you it was.
The quickness of it. The wound on your neck. That exquisite, otherworldly detachment.
You might not know exactly what happened in that room last night or why, but you know you wanted it. You said yes.
You still want it.
Maybe this is who you are—who you’ve been all along. A woman who says yes.
And maybe that’s okay.
Not weird at all, I’m fine. Glad we had that talk.
good good ok J
what time u off work
* * *
July melts into August. Fades to a sweet, sleepless blur, like your body is determined to make up for lost time. As though you’ve been waiting for him your whole life.
He asks you, over and over, night after night, if you want to go somewhere. Do something. Eat. Drink. See a movie.
“No.”
You just want to get off and gray out. As many times as possible. Strip, sweat, surrender. Wake up, shower, and do it again.
No man on earth would argue with that.
There’s something he likes about using his teeth. You don’t mind, as long as Mia can’t see the marks. He’s good about that.
Besides, it doesn’t hurt.
It’s getting harder and harder to go home after you blink the gray away. If it weren’t for Mia, you’d stay all night and sleep all day. Skip work, skip dinner, skip your whole entire life. She’s the only thing keeping you tethered. The instant you return to your body, you can feel her. Pulling you across the darkness and back to your door.
Well, Ruby’s door. She’s there three nights a week now.
That’s how you try to do this.
He is not allowed at your apartment.
Think of your daughter before you think of doing that again.
“You should let me meet her.”
“You’ve met her.”
“Not really. I actually like kids, y’know. It’s not like… a problem for me—”
Your eyes rise to meet his, and you almost say yes. But something needles at you.
“I’m just not sure she’s ready.”
* * *
One night, you come over and he’s slow to answer the door. He’s usually there the instant you hit the buzzer. He says hello between grit teeth, like he thinks he can make you believe it’s a smile. He limps toward the couch, favoring his left side, and folds you into his lap before you can ask any questions. Guides your tight skirt up past your thighs, making sure you can feel how hard he already is. But you can’t help but gasp when he undresses and you glimpse the furious, blistered black-and-blue lesion on his right calf.
“Holy shit. What happened to you?”
His gaze is opaque. Inscrutable. Like he’s not sure what you’re talking about at first.
“Oh.” He follows your gaze to his leg. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry? We need to like, go to Urgent Care or something. Right away—”
He hangs his head, like meeting your eye might set him ablaze. Pulls up his pants.
“It’s fine. It’ll go away.”
“It doesn’t look fine.” It really hits you then, how much you don’t know about him. You can’t even begin to imagine how he might have hurt himself. At work, on some rogue piece of machinery (wait, what’s his job)? On a hike, after pissing off a snake (does he even hike)?
Finally, he looks at you.
“I guess this was gonna come up sooner or later,” he says, a tremor in his voice. “I’m sorry I haven’t been honest with you.”
“What do you mean?” What you want to say is, I’m sorry I never asked.
A sweet girl would have wanted that. His honesty. To know him—not just his body. But if he sees the flash of guilt in your eyes, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
The pit of your stomach flickers as he reaches for your hand.
“I have this… problem. It’s an auto-immune thing,” he says, like it hurts to shape the words. “It’s genetic, so it’s not like you can catch it by hanging with me or anything like that. But there’s a lot of random shit I’m allergic to. This right here?” He rolls up his pant leg, exposing the festered wound. “I scraped myself on a rusty shovel yesterday while I was helping my brother do some yard work.”
You’re not sure what to say for a moment. The most pathetic response imaginable stumbles from your lips. “When was the last time you had a Tetanus shot?”
There’s that self-effacing laugh again. “Babe, a Tetanus shot isn’t gonna fix this.”
A soft hiatus falls.
“Does it hurt?”
“Of course. But I’m used to it.”
“Is there any medication you can take?”
“Not yet.” He says with a cramped smile. “Just gotta steer clear of all the stuff that fucks with me. Rust. Caffeine. Too much sun.”
You glance over at the blackout curtains, edges smothered by layers of duct tape.
“Is this okay? I totally understand, if this is like… weird for you—”
“No. It’s okay.” Emotion sticks in your sternum like a knife. “I’m just sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He tucks a tendril of hair behind your ear and slides you back into his lap. Gray twinkles in the corner of your eye as his lips brush the nape of your neck. Two icy fingers nudge your wet, silky thong aside and find their way to your heat. “I’m not.”
* * *
A few nights later, the air conditioning is on the fritz and you desperately need to breathe something clean so the two of you decide to go for a walk in a nearby park. It’s closed, but you hop a fence.
It’s the first time all summer that you’ve left the apartment.
He talks about his dad—the whole reason he’s in town—whose slow, grisly death has forced him to reckon with his own fate. Both have that same rare disease lurking in their blood. He says he’d run for the fucking hills if he could, but it’d be like betraying himself.
You tell him about Mom. Cancer they found two years too late. How she wanted to die the same day your father did but missed the mark by a week. How you pretended you still believed in heaven, for her sake.
He takes your hand to help you back over the fence. Holds onto it and kisses the place your fingers interlock. “You’re not seeing anyone else right now, are you?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
“No.” Your chest swells.
“Good. Me neither.”
* * *
You know it’s stupid, but you’ve stopped using protection. He doesn’t seem particularly concerned. Confesses he’s fantasized about being the one who got you pregnant. It’s so fucking good the first time there are tears in your eyes and the gray isn’t gray anymore. It’s pitch perfect black.
* * *
He says he’s been thinking he might stay in town, after his dad passes. Get a job here. He’s living off his savings right now. Grabbing odd gigs where he can. Driving trucks. Fixing computers. You tell him when that day comes that the two of you should go someplace else.
“I never meant to stay here. You shouldn’t, either.”
“Where do you wanna go?” He cracks the window and lights a cigarette. Eases it between your lips and lets you take the first sip.
“Dunno, I always thought I’d like it in Maine or New Hampshire, or something like that.”
“Fucking cold up there.”
“It’s a change.”
“Is that what you’re looking for? A change?”
Fractured lamplight partitions his face, wreathed with smoke, as he fixes you with a velvety stare. You nod.
* * *
“Mom. We need to go shopping.”
Mia stands silhouetted by the light of the empty fridge. She slams it and spins to meet your gaze.
“You’ll be at Chloe’s house in a couple hours. You can have dinner there.”
“I’m hungry now.” Her stare burns a hole between your eyes. “Aren’t you?”
I shrug.
“You’re really skinny.”
You cast her a sidelong grin. “Why, thank you.”
She looks at you like she wishes she knew how to prod further. As if you’d know how to answer, if she did.
* * *
You toss frozen chicken nuggets and bruised apples into the cart with haphazard abandon. Mia clutches a package of Double-Stuf Oreos to her chest. The ripe rapture of fruit wafting from the produce aisle beckons like a snake charmer. You snag a peach and tear the flesh with your chattering teeth. Pluck the sticker with the barcode from your mouth so you don’t forget to pay for it.
You can’t explain the appetite loss. If you’re hungry, you hardly feel it, and you never eat at his apartment—as if emptiness can’t exist there.
It’s only on the intervening days that you start to feel your body again. Start to ask questions.
Mia’s gaze rests on the sinewy peach pit in the basket. She doesn’t see you reach under your shirt to scratch at a scab, smarting as it chafes against your waistband.
* * *
Your phone rings while you’re checking out. Ruby.
“Hey. You got a sec?”
You don’t like when conversations start this way. You’re supposed to take Mia to her house in an hour.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Look, Rob and I were talking… and we think we need to give the kids a break for the rest of the week.”
“Oh. Okay.”
You swipe your credit card. Your hand is trembling. Mia’s already ravaged the package of Oreos, and you steal one from her as you cradle the phone against your shoulder.
“Izzy… I just… This past month—”
“I’ll make it up to you guys, I promise. Chloe’s welcome at ours anytime, if you and Rob want to take a trip or—”
“That’s really nice. But that’s not why I wanted to… I’m just a little worried. This isn’t like you.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry, I’m not calling for an apology.” There’s a flustered edge to her honeyed voice. She’s used this tone with you once before. The day you called her while you peed on that stick.
“I guess I’ve been losing track of time,” you offer after a moment. “My boyfriend’s dad is dying and I’ve just… yeah.”
Your throat closes around the words. You have not called him your boyfriend. Not out loud.
Ruby exhales into your ear. “Y’know, I’d love to meet him. Maybe me and Rob can take the two of you to dinner this weekend.”
Your empty stomach wrenches. There is nothing glaringly wrong with this plan. But it’s the same way you felt when he asked to spend time with Mia: A cold, primal shield rising around your heart.
“I’ll see what he’s up to.”
“Maybe next weekend is better, though. Mia’s been missing you.”
That edge in her voice draws blood. Or maybe you just want it to. You deserve it, after all.
You know you can’t just dump your kid at someone’s house every other night for six weeks. Something is seriously wrong with you. In what world did you think this was okay?
“I’m sorry, again.”
“It’s all right, Iz. Just… I’m here, okay? If you ever need… Well, I mean—” She hesitates. Like she’s taking it back. You can’t help but wonder if every kind word she’s ever had for you has been lip-service. Submissive Latter Day sweetness on auto-pilot.
Your cheeks glow. “I’ll let you know about next weekend.”
* * *
Hey I’m sorry but i can’t make it tonight
Wait what’s wrong?
Nothing just need to stay here w Mia
Nbd I can come to you
Sorry, she just wants it to be us. I feel bad I haven’t been around.
Three hours pass. No response. You can’t stop fidgeting. Your hands are chapped you’re wringing them so goddamn hard.
You try calling midway through The Princess Diaries when you notice Mia’s dozed off on the couch. Straight to voicemail.
I’m sorry. Are you mad?
Another two hours. You stare at the stagnant text chain. Picking your scabs under your shirt.
Mia asks for ice cream before bed. You don’t have the energy to argue with her.
You pace the bedroom, clutching your phone like a crucifix. He’s taken this as a rejection. Because it is. And yet… that shield won’t budge. You don’t want him in the same room as your daughter. It doesn’t make sense. Don’t you trust him? Don’t you know each other, by now? If your roles were reversed, you’d feel like absolute garbage if someone you loved didn’t want you spending time with their child.
Because he does.
Doesn’t he?
Do you?
Neither of you have said it. But what the hell else could this possibly be, between you?
* * *
A few minutes after 1AM, you check on Mia, sound asleep with one leg sticking out from under the comforter. You both sleep like that. Mom used to say you liked to “let your feet breathe.”
What’d you get up to tonight?
Still, no reply. Another hour passes. You lie awake, gaping at the ceiling. Itching that scab till it opens and your fingers are slick with blood. You want to cry, when you slip them inside you. There’s no gray, no soft place to land. Just the cruel, incessant glare of the hurt you’ve just caused.
Nothing. I miss you.
Come here.
* * *
You know it’s horrible. Sometimes you acknowledge a thing is horrible but you still do it.
Or maybe only horrible people do that.
You tiptoe into the driveway, carrying your shoes. Double lock the front door behind you. You watch her bedroom window for a light, wondering if she heard you start the car. Part of you wishes she’d wake up. That she’d stop you.
That you didn’t need her to stop you.
* * *
She can tell, when you leave. But her questions are smaller now. Not, “Where were you,” because she knows. The question now is, “Why?” But she never says it aloud. She knows, as well as you do, that there’s no reasonable answer. You just go. Every night. But you’re back in the morning. That has to count for something.
Right?
You’re buzzing, all day long. You don’t have time to catch up on sleep and you don’t want to. You go through your glassy-eyed paces at work. Waiting for nighttime. Waiting for the hour all the stoplights blink yellow so you can speed across town in one fell swoop. Waiting for him to unspool you like dark ribbon till you disappear.
That scab on your waist is still gnawing at you. It’s hot and it stings like some filthy insect keeps boring into your skin, deeper and deeper till it’s tucked between the folds of your brain. Now that you’re going every night, there are more of them.
Now, it hurts.
* * *
Monday morning, you’re home by 6AM. Mia starts school today.
You sag against the wall of the shower, water pelting your spine. Pearls of blood hug the jagged contours of your body and spill down the drain. The offending scab glows under the scalding hot water. You can’t stop itching it. Inflammation prairies across your abdomen.
You lie down in the tub, plug the drain, and pour rubbing alcohol all over your perforated body. Writhe, retch, and vomit bile between your breasts.
You think you pass out. Because the next thing you know, Mia’s knocking on the door, saying she needs to brush her teeth.
* * *
You pass out again at work, just before lunch. Which you probably should have eaten, if your co-worker Grace wasn’t already driving you to the ER.
You slump like a ragdoll in the lobby as your consciousness contracts to a single star then yawns back open. Grace brings you some juice and peanut butter crackers from the vending machine, but it only helps for a few minutes. You sleepwalk to the examination room when they finally say your name, and when you glance at your phone you notice the time. Mia’s going to be out of school soon. When the bus drops her off, there won’t be anyone to let her in. She’s never been a latchkey kid; you’re usually home by 4:15. You ask Grace to pick her up, and she agrees. For the first time in weeks, you feel like you’ve done something right.
You gawk into the black screen of your phone as you wait for the doctor. You wish you could text him. Tell him what happened. But you’re too embarrassed. Like you let him down, somehow.
* * *
“Ms. McKinnon,” the young, raven-haired resident says as she enters. “Your blood sugar is dangerously low, and you’re suffering from acute anemia.”
You nod. Not like it’s a surprise.
“We’re going to put you on a fluid drip for the next few hours and send you home with some dietary recommendations.”
“Okay.”
You reach down to scratch your inflamed wound, realizing too late that you shouldn’t have touched it. The doctor studies the way you wince. The wall of tears in your eyes.
“Anything else you want to talk to us about, while you’re here?”
Slowly, you tug the bottom of your shirt from your too-large waistband. You’ll just show her the bad one. Not the rest of them.
But it’s too hard to hide the whole minefield. You know she’s seen more than the infected spot. She thinks you don’t notice when she recoils.
“Okay so… we’re gonna prescribe you some antibiotics for that. Right away. What happened?”
“My… my friend’s got this horrible dog. It went after my daughter, and I stopped it.”
“Did you report this attack to the police? The state of Utah has a pretty strict zero-tolerance law when it comes to—”
“I mean, it’s my friend. I can’t just—”
“It’s a public safety issue. Plus the health department requires we file a report, if a patient presents with an animal bite.”
“I see.”
The doctor’s dark eyes comb over you like barbed wire.
“I’ll write up a prescription for Amoxicillin for the infection. Take that twice a day for two weeks then check back in with me at the end of the month.”
When the nurse returns with the health department paperwork, you hold your breath and scribble Ruby’s address as the site of the dog attack. They’ve got that German Shepherd. Polly or Poppy, or something like that. You always forget.
“You guys can like… keep it anonymous, right?” You croak as the nurse whisks the documents away.
“I’ll find out.”
Your veins crackle with ice.
* * *
You don’t cry till you see Mia in the waiting room, sitting next to Grace. You don’t know which one of you cries first.
You hobble toward her, but draw back when she hugs you, afraid to disturb your infection. Afraid you might scream in front of her.
All of a sudden it’s so, so cold in here.
Grace supports one side of you. Mia’s got the other.
“C’mon, Mom. We’re gonna go home.”
* * *
You fill your prescription and get ready for bed early. Mia asks if she can sleep in your room. You don’t even mind, that it feels like she’s keeping tabs on you.
But there’s something you need to do first.
You pace the patio as the day darkens like a bruise. Pressing the phone to your ear with a trembling hand.
“I’m not coming tonight.”
“What’s going on?”
You sink into a deck chair. There’s the flick of a lighter on the other end. You wish you had something of your own to smoke right now.
“You sound upset,” he says when you don’t answer. “Did something happen?”
“I just… We need to—” You stare into the cracks between weatherworn floorboards. “I passed out at work and had to go to the hospital today.”
“Shit. Izzy. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I-I dunno. I didn’t want to worry you. I—”
“What did you tell them?” All the warmth evaporates from his voice. Destabilizing you, like your legs might give out again.
“I didn’t… I mean—”
“I need to know exactly what you said.”
“I said a friend’s dog bit me.”
He clears his throat and his tone thaws. “Okay.”
“But that’s not why I wanted to…” God, but it aches. In every fucking part of you. “I don’t think I can see you anymore. I’m sorry.”
He’s so silent you wonder if the call dropped. Till he breathes out. A sigh that slices straight through you.
“Can I say something to you? Before you make a decision like that?”
“Devon, I’ve already… My daughter’s so upset. I can’t just keep—” Tears creep down your clammy face. “What is this? Why are we… Why do you—”
“Izzy—”
“Why are you hurting me?”
He swallows. Sniffs. Filling the awful dead air.
“You told me it was okay.”
Your nerves itch with shame. It’s true. You did.
But it wasn’t a contract. You’re allowed to change your mind.
Aren’t you?
“Listen,” He goes on. Gentler now. “Why don’t I come over, so we can have this conversation in person?”
“N-no.”
You clear a lump from your throat, and your abdomen spasms, bidden by your infection.
“Babe—”
“I-I just…”
“I care about you. So much. You know that, right?”
Mia emerges in your bedroom window. Watching you from above. Snags the edge of your vision and holds it tight.
“Fine,” he cuts the silence. “I hear you. I’ll give you some time to think.”
You nod. As if he can see you. And it’s almost like he does.
“Take care of yourself, Izzy.”
You hang up before he can say anything else. Dig the phone into your quivering lips, salty with fresh tears.
* * *
You pop three Ambien to keep yourself from wandering out after dark.
You can’t remember the last time you slept so much. Fourteen hours.
You dip into your sick days and take the rest of the week off, determined to wash the summer away and let your body mend. On Friday, Mia says Chloe was crying at school because someone came and took their dog away. Peggy.
All the while, the texts keep coming.
let me kmo when ur ready to talk
I’m really sorry, idk how i can make this better. I need u to tell me.
See this is why i didn’t want to talk to u about being sick and everything. i was afraid u would reject me and obviously I was right. I guess i was hoping u would be better than that. L
I dont think i deserve complete and total ghosting tho
thats pretty awful all things considered
i honestly thought we had something rly amazing
but wtf do I kno
fuck my dad just fucking died
That one comes Sunday morning.
You need to go grocery shopping again. Last night you slept through dinner and you feel awful because you know Mia ate ketchup and crackers. You order Domino’s and it gets her through the day. You promise to hit the supermarket tomorrow morning. You’re still so goddamn tired you don’t trust yourself to drive.
Mia has a spelling test tomorrow. You do your best to help her study.
“I think I’m okay to sleep in my own room tonight,” she says later, chewing her toothbrush the way she does when she’s too tired to make a concerted effort.
You kiss the top of her head. “Thank you for being so good this week, baby.”
She wraps her arms around your waist, toothbrush pincered between her incisors. Gets a little white foam on your shirt. You smile and wipe it away, guiding a wisp of copper hair from her mouth and behind her ear.
There’s so much more you want to say, but you don’t have the vocabulary for it. Maybe someday, when she’s older. When she needs to understand these things.
What you wouldn’t give, if that day never came.
* * *
For the first time all week, you can’t sleep. Midnight. 1:00. 2:00.
Storm-tossed, you start fumbling around in the darkness and slither a hand out from under the sheets. Reaching for the phone on your nightstand.
As if you didn’t know, the whole damn night, that it was going to come to this.
I’m so sorry to hear about your dad
U ok?
Send. All the air in your lungs calcifies.
He calls less than thirty seconds later.
“This sucks so much.” His voice is strange. Gooey and distant. Like he’s drunk, but with a fierce, anguished urgency you can’t seem to place.
“It’s gonna feel that way, for a while. I know you wish you’d had more time with him, but at least you—”
“No, I mean… I mean yes. I do. But… this. Is the thing that sucks.”
“What?”
“I love you. I need to see you.”
Now, his voice is razor sharp. Cutting you in a hundred tiny, terrible places.
“Please. I’m like… ten minutes from your place.”
Your stomach drops to your feet, then slinks back up the length of your body. You clench your thighs together, then your teeth.
“I need you so fucking bad.”
The words worm past your ribs, flooding your chest.
“We can just talk. Would that be all right?”
You’re not answering because you know what you’ll say, if you do.
“Actually, I kinda lied. I’m like… across the street.”
“Oh…” You finally say, but it’s more of a strangled exhale. “My daughter’s here.”
“We’ll be quiet. She’ll never know.”
Your heart pounds in your skull.
You haven’t given him a chance to do right by you. Maybe he’s come around. He knows he’s not allowed to hurt you anymore. You’ve made that clear.
“Yes or no, babe?”
Your tongue taps your palate. Forming one word, then the other.
“I don’t wanna wake her up, so I won’t knock.”
You slide out of bed. Pad toward the front door. Squeeze the deadbolt like a trigger.
“Okay. It’s unlocked.”
“Amoxicillin,” copyright © 2024 by Liz Kerin
