Boot prints track up the kitchen floor, and the sink is stained from dirty dishes and rust-colored water. I try the faucets, but they wonât turn on, of course. There isnât any water, just like there isnât any light. I do the best I can with what I have, which is half a roll of paper towels from under the sink and myown spit. I scrub the sink, scrape at the dried boot prints until some of the marks lift away. I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the windows, but they stay grimy and I canât see much on the other side.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
When it starts to get light out, I stop cleaning and head back to Phyllisâs. Although I havenât slept, I feel like somebody waking up after a nap they didnât mean to take. I try to hurry, but people in cars still stare at a jogging girl in her pajamas with no coat on. Two different times, someone stops to help. When they pull over, I walk faster. Then a police car pulls over. I stop. My heart hits the back of my rib cage faster and faster.
Phyllis is trying to hide tears when I get out of the police car. Iâm washed in guilt. She runs to me, reaches out like sheâs going to hug me or slap meâI canât tell which, because her hands are shaking. Either way, she stops short. She keeps shoving bits of gray hair behind her ears. I think sheâs gotten grayer in the two months weâve known each other. She thanks the officer, who speaks quietly with her. She hurries me inside, where there is oatmeal and blankets.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
âPhyllis?â
âHmm?â Sheâs cleaning the kitchen again, washing out oatmeal bowls while I soak my feet in a hot pan of water. The waterâs murky and gray from all the filth I picked up along the road, but my feet feel thawed.
âCan I stay home today?â It feels like weeks have passed since Thursday, but somehow itâs only Friday. The clock on the oven, right again now that itâs spring, says Iâm going to be late for the bus if I donât leave soon.
Phyllis pulls a spoon from the drainer and holds it up to the light, then runs it under water again. It isnât until sheâs rubbing it dry with a dish towel that she answers, âI wish you would.â
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
The snow comes back at dusk. The flakes are small and beady against the heavy, wet gray of the sky. I sit in bed and think about how I didnât visit the GUI-tar today. It seems far away, like my life before Michael died.
Phyllis sits on the edge of my bed, picking at one corner of the blanket.
âSasha, tell me what you need,â she says. âTell me what on this earthâll keep you from running off like this.â Her voice is not her usual Sasha voice. Itâs the kind of voice people use to plead with traffic to move out of their way, or to plead with God to make somebody stay. Itâs the kind of voice people use when theyâre not really talking to the person right in front of them.
I donât know what I need. I need time to slow down. I need to escape Caboose, or I need to stop feeling like Iâm going to lose my mind if I donât. I stay quiet, playing with the bits of yarn sticking up out of the center of each quilt square. We play with opposite ends of our blanket,me and Phyllis. I can hear the wind playing with the loose shingles on Hubertâs roof. A siren starts up somewhere out in the town.
Phyllis blows out a breath. I think about how Iâm not hers and about how everybody has to have a giving-up point. I canât look at her anymore, at the eyes Iâve made sad and the hands Iâve made shake. Guilt and dread make me weak, and I sink down under the covers, rolling away from her. I tug up the quilt. It smells like laundry detergent. I feel it slip from her grasp when I pull.
âWake me,â she says, and now her voice is closer to the one Iâm
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
When it starts to get light out, I stop cleaning and head back to Phyllisâs. Although I havenât slept, I feel like somebody waking up after a nap they didnât mean to take. I try to hurry, but people in cars still stare at a jogging girl in her pajamas with no coat on. Two different times, someone stops to help. When they pull over, I walk faster. Then a police car pulls over. I stop. My heart hits the back of my rib cage faster and faster.
Phyllis is trying to hide tears when I get out of the police car. Iâm washed in guilt. She runs to me, reaches out like sheâs going to hug me or slap meâI canât tell which, because her hands are shaking. Either way, she stops short. She keeps shoving bits of gray hair behind her ears. I think sheâs gotten grayer in the two months weâve known each other. She thanks the officer, who speaks quietly with her. She hurries me inside, where there is oatmeal and blankets.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
âPhyllis?â
âHmm?â Sheâs cleaning the kitchen again, washing out oatmeal bowls while I soak my feet in a hot pan of water. The waterâs murky and gray from all the filth I picked up along the road, but my feet feel thawed.
âCan I stay home today?â It feels like weeks have passed since Thursday, but somehow itâs only Friday. The clock on the oven, right again now that itâs spring, says Iâm going to be late for the bus if I donât leave soon.
Phyllis pulls a spoon from the drainer and holds it up to the light, then runs it under water again. It isnât until sheâs rubbing it dry with a dish towel that she answers, âI wish you would.â
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
The snow comes back at dusk. The flakes are small and beady against the heavy, wet gray of the sky. I sit in bed and think about how I didnât visit the GUI-tar today. It seems far away, like my life before Michael died.
Phyllis sits on the edge of my bed, picking at one corner of the blanket.
âSasha, tell me what you need,â she says. âTell me what on this earthâll keep you from running off like this.â Her voice is not her usual Sasha voice. Itâs the kind of voice people use to plead with traffic to move out of their way, or to plead with God to make somebody stay. Itâs the kind of voice people use when theyâre not really talking to the person right in front of them.
I donât know what I need. I need time to slow down. I need to escape Caboose, or I need to stop feeling like Iâm going to lose my mind if I donât. I stay quiet, playing with the bits of yarn sticking up out of the center of each quilt square. We play with opposite ends of our blanket,me and Phyllis. I can hear the wind playing with the loose shingles on Hubertâs roof. A siren starts up somewhere out in the town.
Phyllis blows out a breath. I think about how Iâm not hers and about how everybody has to have a giving-up point. I canât look at her anymore, at the eyes Iâve made sad and the hands Iâve made shake. Guilt and dread make me weak, and I sink down under the covers, rolling away from her. I tug up the quilt. It smells like laundry detergent. I feel it slip from her grasp when I pull.
âWake me,â she says, and now her voice is closer to the one Iâm
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