It’s Saturday and Mom is grocery shopping. Bella has planned to visit Dad and asks me for the third time whether I’d like to tag along. I’m sitting in the room that is our kitchen and dining and living room all in one, watching Saturday morning kids’ shows because I can. The couch I’m sitting on—way too big for this unit, but we can’t afford a new one—is littered with used tissues, the plate that my toast was on, and remote controls, because I can never figure out which is which. My pretend cold has taken on a life of its own. I’ve stemmed the dripping of my nose by shoving a tissue up each nostril. “No thanks,” I say, though it sounds like, “Dough tanks.” Bella taps her foot like I’m letting her down. I don’t know why she still bothers asking me. “Any message?” she asks finally. I shake my head and turn up the volume. A cartoon character has been sliced and diced then miraculously re-formed. I hear the door slam as Bella leaves. A minute later I’ve thought of a message for Dad so I drag myself off the couch, rush to the door, and poke my head outside.
