I sit up in bed, pulling the covers around me, my heart sick with fear. I throw on a bathrobe over the old T-shirt and shorts I’m wearing, pulling the sash tight, the cloth around my waist steadying me. When I open my bedroom door, there is a crack of light, a yellow slice beckoning from the first floor of the house. I creep downstairs like I’m trespassing, my feet almost soundless, but for the creak of the last step. A light is on in the kitchen, and standing in the hallway, I can hear the opening and closing of the refrigerator door, the sound of a zipper being pulled, a chair scraped back from the table. I sniff the air, searching for the rotted stink of dead blossoms, the electric heat of ozone, but find only the faint, lingering odor of last night’s dinner, a gluey mix of mashed potatoes and broiled turkey meat loaf. When I walk into the kitchen, my father is bent over the kitchen table, his shoulders bunched up around his ears. When he turns around, I see a duffel bag lying on top of the dark wood, stuffed to the seams with what I know, without even asking, are his clothes—the few he’s taking with him.
