Sita: four messages. The first one is thesooo how's jail lolthat I saw the day I got out. Then:okay but seriously are you okay?andI've been reading everything and it's insaneandplease call me.
I text her back:I'm alive. Jail was horrible and Duster is exactly as bad as it sounds. I miss you. Will call soon.
I keep scrolling. My sister, Margot, has sent a few messages. Margot is three years older and works in corporate law in New York. She's never made a bad decision in her life, which she manages to communicate in every interaction without ever saying it directly.
Sloane. Call Mom. Dad told me about the credit cards. I think it's the right call. Don't hate me. Are you eating? Are you sleeping? Hang in there.
Then there's Tyler. Tyler Fucking Ashworth. The man whose wandering hands started this whole chain of events. It's all his fault, really. Funny that I haven't shed a single tear over him. It's mostly rage I feel toward him.
He's sent one message.Hey. Saw the news. That's rough. Hope you're okay.
I block him and call Dad. He picks up on the first ring.
"Sloane."
"Dad." My voice cracks immediately, which is not part of the plan. The plan was to be calm and make a reasonable case for basic human necessities. Instead, what comes out is: "It'shorrible, Dad. Everything is horrible. The motel is disgusting. The sheets are polyester. There's no hair dryer. I'm washing my clothes in the shower with shampoo. The food is fried or beige or both. Everyone in town stares at me like I'm a criminal —"
"You are a criminal."
"— and the woman who runs the sanctuary hates me and the pigs are terrifying and there were photographers today. They were shouting at me and filming me and I had to hide in the kitchen."
I can hear the clink of ice in a glass, which means he's in his study with a scotch, comfortably sitting in a leather chair in a house with central air and Egyptian cotton sheets, and a refrigerator that doesn't sound like a dying lawnmower. The injustice of this makes me want to reach through the phone and shake him.
"I need you to send some things," I say through sniffs.
"What kind of things?"
"Clothes. A hair straightener and a blow dryer. And some decent pillows — the one here is basically a folded towel. And sheets. Cotton sheets, Dad. High thread count. And champagne. And maybe some sushi — you can get it delivered on ice, there are companies that do that. And a proper coffee maker with enough pods for two months. And —"
"Sloane."
" — and some face masks, the moisturizing kind. My skin is destroyed from the sun and the dust and —"
"Sloane."
"What?"
"I'm not sending you luxury items."
"Why not?"
"Because that's not the point of this. If you need work boots or sunscreen or a decent hat, we can arrange that. But I'm notdispatching someone to drive four hours with a crate of luxuries so you can turn your motel room into a spa."
"I'm not asking for a spa. I'm asking for basic human —"
"Champagne is not a basic human need."
"It is when you're in Duster."
"No, Sloane. It isn't."
I'm crying again. I seem to cry constantly now, which is new. I barely cried before any of this, not even when Tyler took off with the bridesmaid. Duster has turned me into a person who cries at everything.
"I don't even have enough clothes," I say. "I have two pairs of shorts and I'm washing one pair every night in the shower and wearing the other pair the next day and I can't keep doing this for two months."
"Then do your laundry."
"I just told you, I am doing my laundry. In the shower. With shampoo."
