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against my chest. “Please, wait.”
Trey slams on the brakes. What?
His voice is taut, his eyes frantic.
Are you having a heart attack?
I shake my head, close my eyes,
concentrate on finding air.
And suddenly, it’s there.
I suck it down. “P-panic attack.
I’m o-okay now. We c-c-can go.”
But we can’t. Because just as we
start to turn onto the highway, a big
flashing sign overhead warns:
Whiteout conditions. Road closed.
Summer
NOT MUCH ROMANTIC
About living homeless.
It’s hasn’t even been a week.
We reek.
No showers for six
days would be bad enough
on its own, but Kyle is
sweating
out the last vestiges of
meth in his system. For me,
he says, though as yet
we barely speak
about what that really
means. That he’ll never
do drugs again? Will he be
forgetting
