Bait Under My Pillow

The thief accusation bothered me because it sounded rehearsed. Naomi did not look caught out; she looked relieved to have the whole room staring at me. That is the part I keep returning to. I wanted evidence badly enough to mistake public anger for a mistake in their procedure.

Tamsin appearing was worse. Not because she exposed the false notice, but because she made it obvious how easily paper can erase a living person. I keep thinking about the handover sheet prepared after my mother's medical cuff changed rooms. How many versions of my mother exist on paper, and which one gets to inherit the house? I opened that drawing tonight because I could bear the rain less than the thought of my mother becoming one more administrative correction.

I called her. I did not mention the depot, and she did not make me feel brave for protecting her from it. I hated how grateful I was for that silence. Sometimes care is just arranging the facts so two people can avoid each other.

My mother is about to lose the Observatory home. The thought is so ordinary it makes me want to break something. I keep my life in the truck, no lease, no room with my name on the door, and still I act as though leaving quickly is freedom. It may be. It may also be the coward's version of commitment.

The drives are under my pillow. If anyone comes through that guest-room door, I will have to choose between protecting the evidence and reaching them first. I dressed in clothes that will not tear if I have to run, then lay there pretending calm was a plan.