his con-man imagination? Box: Will it have any clues as to where I can find Aunt Sarah?
Constants: Me, Dadâs word
I look at my purpose and wonder if Dad would lie about somebody like a long-lost aunt. Heâs many things: a con man, crook, thief, and at the best of times a businessman with less-than-ethical practices. But heâs never lied to me. Plus, why would he invent an aunt at the last minute?
The material list bugs me. The box. I have to get Momâs box. My stomach tightens. I hate thinking about that box and Momâs things all stored away. Dad taught me to never look back. Even though he did. Prime example? The box. I watched as they piled the last of that frozen dirt on her grave. Sheâs buried.
Gone.
And now I have to go start digging things up again. Iâve never been into forensics.
I get the Citifare schedule from the Kids Place rec room. The last bus home leaves downtown Reno at 10:45 P.M ., and Kids Place last rounds are at eleven P.M . The only way to get out of Kids Place and gain some time is to take the first bus in the morning, at 5:45 A.M .
I wait until Kids Place has a shift changeâat three A.M . I listen to Shellyâs soft snore and Jessâs deep breathing. The only time Nicole never makes a sound is when she sleeps. Itâs like her body shuts down after being on âplayâ all day. Thatâs a problem, though, because itâs impossible to tell if sheâs asleep or not. Itâs sometimes hard to tell if sheâs alive.
I check Nicoleâs pills one more time. Habit. I exhaleâall there.
At four A.M . I leave, doing that pillow thing everybody does in the movies so that people think thereâs actually a human body. Given more time, I could definitely have come up with something better.
I walk through the dark streets, avoiding lights and cars, dodging in and out of shadows. Iâve done this walk about ten times in my head. Today I canât afford to get lost.
The RTC Citicenter isnât that far, but it feels a lot farther in the dark. And I canât shake the feeling somebodyâsfollowing me. It canât be Beulah. Her suits make too much noise. I hear a twig snap behind me and spin around to an empty street.
Iâm definitely paranoid.
But paranoia is actually a necessityâa normal human defense mechanism designed to protect us from harm. It becomes problematic, though, when the paranoia evolves into a constant delusional state in which the person truly believes, and reacts to the belief, that some harm will come to him or her at all times. Considering the fact that this is the first time Iâve been on the lam, so to speak, by myself, I donât think my paranoia is delusional. Just precaution.
Downtownâs practically empty. All the drunken gamblers have probably already gone home. I watch some old grandmas feed the nickel slots, bloodshot eyes, hoping for the big win. Shocks of sprayed blue hair stick to glistening foreheads. It makes me sad to watch them like that. Reno can be a pretty sad place.
I make my way to the bus station and sit down on a bench outside. I have forty minutes to go. A guy who smells like pee sits next to me, moons of dirt under long fingernails; matted, greasy hair; a gaunt face caked with grime. He shivers and talks to himself. I move to the edgeof the bench and watch, embarrassed for him.
When I take a closer look, I realize heâs not much older than me.
Now the place is crowded with casino workers who just got off the night shift. The bus finally comes, and I rush on with the jostling crowd. I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact with everybody. When we get to my stop, at 6:10 A.M., I clamber off and turn around in time to see a thin figure slip out of the dim light of a streetlamp into the shadows. I shiver and rub my hands up and down my arms, heading toward home. This morning everything seems too darkâtoo cold.
When I look back at the streetlamp, the
Constants: Me, Dadâs word
I look at my purpose and wonder if Dad would lie about somebody like a long-lost aunt. Heâs many things: a con man, crook, thief, and at the best of times a businessman with less-than-ethical practices. But heâs never lied to me. Plus, why would he invent an aunt at the last minute?
The material list bugs me. The box. I have to get Momâs box. My stomach tightens. I hate thinking about that box and Momâs things all stored away. Dad taught me to never look back. Even though he did. Prime example? The box. I watched as they piled the last of that frozen dirt on her grave. Sheâs buried.
Gone.
And now I have to go start digging things up again. Iâve never been into forensics.
I get the Citifare schedule from the Kids Place rec room. The last bus home leaves downtown Reno at 10:45 P.M ., and Kids Place last rounds are at eleven P.M . The only way to get out of Kids Place and gain some time is to take the first bus in the morning, at 5:45 A.M .
I wait until Kids Place has a shift changeâat three A.M . I listen to Shellyâs soft snore and Jessâs deep breathing. The only time Nicole never makes a sound is when she sleeps. Itâs like her body shuts down after being on âplayâ all day. Thatâs a problem, though, because itâs impossible to tell if sheâs asleep or not. Itâs sometimes hard to tell if sheâs alive.
I check Nicoleâs pills one more time. Habit. I exhaleâall there.
At four A.M . I leave, doing that pillow thing everybody does in the movies so that people think thereâs actually a human body. Given more time, I could definitely have come up with something better.
I walk through the dark streets, avoiding lights and cars, dodging in and out of shadows. Iâve done this walk about ten times in my head. Today I canât afford to get lost.
The RTC Citicenter isnât that far, but it feels a lot farther in the dark. And I canât shake the feeling somebodyâsfollowing me. It canât be Beulah. Her suits make too much noise. I hear a twig snap behind me and spin around to an empty street.
Iâm definitely paranoid.
But paranoia is actually a necessityâa normal human defense mechanism designed to protect us from harm. It becomes problematic, though, when the paranoia evolves into a constant delusional state in which the person truly believes, and reacts to the belief, that some harm will come to him or her at all times. Considering the fact that this is the first time Iâve been on the lam, so to speak, by myself, I donât think my paranoia is delusional. Just precaution.
Downtownâs practically empty. All the drunken gamblers have probably already gone home. I watch some old grandmas feed the nickel slots, bloodshot eyes, hoping for the big win. Shocks of sprayed blue hair stick to glistening foreheads. It makes me sad to watch them like that. Reno can be a pretty sad place.
I make my way to the bus station and sit down on a bench outside. I have forty minutes to go. A guy who smells like pee sits next to me, moons of dirt under long fingernails; matted, greasy hair; a gaunt face caked with grime. He shivers and talks to himself. I move to the edgeof the bench and watch, embarrassed for him.
When I take a closer look, I realize heâs not much older than me.
Now the place is crowded with casino workers who just got off the night shift. The bus finally comes, and I rush on with the jostling crowd. I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact with everybody. When we get to my stop, at 6:10 A.M., I clamber off and turn around in time to see a thin figure slip out of the dim light of a streetlamp into the shadows. I shiver and rub my hands up and down my arms, heading toward home. This morning everything seems too darkâtoo cold.
When I look back at the streetlamp, the
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