The first thought I had when Max lifted the glass pitcher from the counter and hurled it at my head was, ‘glass breaks’. Not all glass breaks though, because just as I braced myself for impact, the handle of the thick pitcher struck me in the forehead leaving me dizzy and watery eyed. I decided that night was the last night I would put up with him; there were tears— mostly his. It’s funny that even though I’d leave the altercation with a set of new injuries, he’d be the one playing the victim.
I dialed my mom and she drove me to the hospital, cigarette pinched between her thin fingers as she tried not to ask me the specifics of what happened. She knew. Everyone knew. I wore makeup or long sleeve shirts, but everyone knew to some degree. In fact, I think that I might’ve been the last one to know out of all of them. That’s not true though; I knew what he did was wrong. But relationships have faults, all of them. Or so I told myself.
Mom strangled through a cough as she pulled the cigarette from her mouth. “Your dad, for all his problems, never did anything like that. God rest his soul.” She was half right there. My dear old dad never had put his hands on me, but he sure did a number on Mom. I think the reason she’d stayed single all the years after his death is because he destroyed any confidence she had before they married.
I held a paper towel to my forehead, pain pulsing through my skull. I slid the paper towel down to examine it— I was bleeding more than I ever had before— normally it was bruises; seeing the split skin across my brow made me wince. “I’m not going back,” I said. I meant it too.
They stitched me up, checked me for a concussion and told Mom to keep a close eye on me. I slept on the couch in the house I grew up in with my phone buzzing alive every few minutes to let me know how sorry Max was— I looked at the illuminated cracked screen where several voicemails awaited me. I hit play on one of the voice recordings he’d left. As per usual, he fought back sobs:
“Sally! Oh god, Sally! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. You know how I get though. Sometimes I just can’t control myself, but I swear that’s something I’m working on and nothing like that will ever happen again. You know me. You know I didn’t mean it. You know I love you.”
It clicked to an end, and I laid on the couch, staring into the dark with the phone on my chest. He’d thrown the pitcher at my head because I had told him that I’d like to go out for Italian, and we always go where he wants to go. He told me it was his money, but I reminded him that was only the case because he’d forced me to quit my job. He did not like that, apparently.
It’s startling, being in love with, scared of, and pitying the same person all at once. I’d seen the writing on the wall; he’d get too rough and kill me. Mom lived through Dad’s rage, but she’d not gotten away unscathed. There were scars seen and not.
I returned to the house I shared with Max only once to retrieve my Buick; he could have whatever else I left.
Mom spoke to her manager at Waffle House to get me a job waitressing, and I was able to make diddly in tips, but at least it was something. The level of comradery I found in that place has since been unmatched by anywhere else I’ve ever worked. What’s that saying? ‘Misery enjoys company’. It felt like that. We were all miserable, underpaid, slinging hash.
The shift manager, a bald guy named Bill, was well over six feet tall and worked wonky shifts where he’d find himself on overnights half the time— he habitually drank coffee and cussed under his breath like it was going out of style. The cook that worked nights alongside me was a wiry young black man, Jarvis. On more than one night, shit kicking rednecks came in, proudly shouting the N-word and telling him that he’d better get someone else to cook their food— yay Tennessee. This normally ended in a shouting match where Jarvis would brandish his metal spatula at them, and Bill— when he was there— would promptly escort them out. I always expected it to escalate into a brawl, but Bill had a way of wrangling in rabblerousers.
The wound on my forehead healed slowly, leaving behind a permanent horizontal indention in the skin; sometimes I’d take my forefinger, press the spot, and feel a tingle all down my face. No amount of makeup covered that up and the patrons at Waffle House— especially the drunks in the middle of the night— liked calling me Bride of Frankenstein when they thought I couldn’t hear them; funny thing is, they still had the audacity to ask for my number after the fact.
Max tried showing up and sitting in his car in the parking lot just around the corner of the diner by a dumpster. How he found out where I worked, I don’t know. The first time I saw the backend of his trashy Camaro sitting out there, I fell into a panic and told Bill.
I sat inside on one of the stools at the bar, shaking while Jarvis tried telling me things would be alright and that Bill would handle it; I’d never expected it to have that sort of effect on me— I hated that.
Finally, Bill returned, sweating, red in the face.
“What happened?” I asked him.
“I fuckin’ told ‘im to kick rocks before I kicked ‘is shit,” Bill grinned. “Anyone that drives a hunk o’ shit like ‘at needs a smack, far’s I’m concerned.”
The sound of rubber on asphalt screamed through the empty parking lot and Max’s Camaro squirted onto the street, disappearing around a corner.
Jarvis and Bill looked at me for a moment, like they expected me to explain what was wrong with Max. I merely lifted my pinky and wiggled it as though to convey why he drove a car like that.
Jarvis let out a hearty chuckle while Bill shook his head like a dutiful manager, mumbling something about ‘if there’s time to lean, there’s time to clean’— there was a smile around his eyes though.
For all the faults of living in a small town, the rent was cheapish, and I only had to find one other job to move out on my own.
I’d work overnight at Waffle House then go to the bathroom to change into my shirt for Exxon Mobil. Being a gas station clerk was easy enough, but all of my free time slipped away, and it felt like I was either sleeping or working with nothing in between. It’s amazing what you get used to even when you shouldn’t.
With some help from Mom, I was able to find a place just on the outskirts of Gallatin. It was a single apartment on the second story of an antique shop. When I called the number listed by the pictures of the place, a man with a very deep southern drawl answered, “Y’ello?”
“Yeah, I’m calling about the place you’ve got over on Willow Avenue for rent. I was wondering when I’d be able to come up and take a look at it.”
“Jus’ so you know, no pets are allowed. No smokin’ neither. And quiet time starts around ten o’clock.”
Quiet time? That baffled me, but I couldn’t care less; by the time ten o’clock rolled around, I’d be off to work most nights. “Sure?” I said, “That’d be fine. I’d like to take a look at the place though before I make any decisions.”
We scheduled to meet two days later.
Willow Avenue was a gravel road stretching long into the forest. Mom sat in the passenger side of the Buick with her wrist limply dangling a cigarette from a crack in the window; her shoulders rocked along with each pitch in the road. Along the way we passed several handmade cardboard signs with writing scrawled in black marker saying ANTIQS with an arrow pointing yonder down the road.
“God. I’d hate to get a flat out here or something,” I said idly.
“I’ve always liked the trees though,” said Mom, “It’s nice and calm and the sounds at night put me to sleep.”
The place sat on the side of the road in a way that if I’d been going another five miles an hour, I might have missed it entirely; it stood tall and narrow with dilapidated brickwork that made me question its structural fortitude. On the first floor there stood a broad rectangular window, brackish from years and years; stapled overhead was the sign. It read out the name of the establishment in worn bronze lettering: DAILY PRAISE. Just above that was a series of windows that I could only assume contained the apartment I was looking for.
Mom slammed the car door as I gathered my purse, keeping it tight under my shoulder. Having my own money still felt surreal and I half expected anyone to burst from the surrounding trees to try and pry it from my hands— ridiculous, I know. We approached the front of the building; if it weren’t for a light on somewhere within, I would have assumed the place was derelict and abandoned long ago.
A tiny metal bell overhead alerted anyone inside to our presence and we stood awkwardly, waiting in the front of the antique shop. A high wooden counter greeted us with no one behind it. I scanned the room, finding all manner of overpriced junk from porcelain minstrelsy dolls to huge, towering bookshelves and armoires; dusty wine glasses sat organized within a chinaware cabinet. There were rocking chairs stacked dangerously to the ceiling, rusty lanterns, globes, ancient books; I don’t know how it is that someone could fill a room full of so many things and still have it feel totally empty of value.
I heard a distinct grunt from somewhere deeper in the shop; a rotund man with stubble around his swollen chin wiped his sweaty red face with a spotty handkerchief as he rounded the corner of a bookshelf; curly red hair sprung from his head in springs. “Y’ello,” he said, “You here for the vintage sewin’ machine?”
I shook my head. “I’m the one that called the other day about your room for rent. We spoke on the phone about it.”
Mom, lips pursed, wandered feet away, inspecting the minstrel dolls with a look of mild criticism.
“That’s right!” he said, stuffing the handkerchief into his front shirt pocket. The man withdrew a plastic bag and placed half of its contents into his mouth. He spoke around the chaw, “I’m Trey.” He stuck out his stained hand for a shake; it was calloused. “Used to have my grandma up there, but she passed away last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
“S’fine. She was getting’ old, and it didn’t come as a shock to anyone. If I’m being honest, she’d lost her marbles and started forgettin’ everyone. I think she would’ve liked to go before her memory got that bad.”
“That’s awful.”
“Sure is,” Trey took an empty Mountain Dew bottle from the front counter and spat black sludge into it. “That’s the way o’ the world though, innit? Anyway, I’ve had trouble rentin’ the place out— as it turns out, people don’t much care for that bit of trivia. Figured I’d disclose it up front so you could turn it down if you want.”
“Can I look at it?”
Trey nodded before turning his attention to Mom who’d lifted one of the minstrel dolls to study its face. “You wanna’ buy one of ‘em?”
Mom flinched like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to before placing the doll back on its table with the others. “No, thank you.” She wiped her hand down the front of her pants.
Trey took us back through the front door and rounded the corner of the rear of the building where two sets of iron stairs led up to the second story; one staircase ran the length on the left and the other on the right creating an upside-down V shape. Trey pointed at the one in front of us. “This one leads up to the room for rent and,” his finger swung around to point at the other staircase, “I live right over there, so if you’d need anything, I’m right next door.”
We took the stairs, me following behind Trey and Mom behind me; the rickety nature of the steps made me afraid that one false step would pull it from its anchors on the brick wall. As I followed behind, I got a glorious view of Trey’s exposed ass crack; I tried staring at my feet, but in the midday heat, I caught the stench coming from his rear end. Trying to be polite, I said nothing.
We met the second story landing and he fiddled with the keys before pushing the door in; we spilled in, and I felt an overwhelming barrier of still heat.
“Haven’t been keeping this place too cool seein’ as no one’s in it.” He sounded apologetic.
Wandering through the small apartment, I inspected the exposed brickwork, taking notice that the frame of the structure met an interior wall that’d been added sometime after it’s original construction; this was the wall I’d share with Trey.
He grinned and rolled his right hand into a ball before pounding the shared wall. “See? If you needed anything, all you’ve gotta’ do is knock and I’ll be at your beck and call.” I couldn’t decide if his awkwardness was annoying or charming.
After getting a good feel for the apartment’s layout, I could see there wasn’t much to look at. A small hallway— containing a bathroom off the right— led towards the front of the building where the layout became a big square with a kitchenette and a small space for a bed and maybe a TV. “It’s nice,” I said. Really, it was just enough, and I could afford it.
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“Yeah,” said Trey, “I know it’s not much to look at, but it’s got all the basic comforts. Relatively new plumbin’ and electrical. Plus, the water ‘n electric’s included in the askin’ price anyway.”
I studied the bathroom. The door leading into the room swung inward so that it banged into the toilet. The shower was just large enough to stand in. The sink sat directly in front of the toilet; if I was any taller I could imagine my knees meeting the cupboard beneath the sink.
“So?” asked Trey, “What do you think?”
I wanted to say I’d think it over and that I was still shopping around, but I knew this was about the cheapest place I could find that wasn’t under an overpass, and cheap was good as far as I was concerned. My eyes glanced around the small bathroom. “I could make this work.”
“Really?” Trey grinned, his cheeks swelling red. “That’s great! I honestly thought it’d be a waste of time showin’ you the place, so I’m glad it’s all good with you.”
I stepped back into the hallway, looking to the ceiling. “Hey, what’s that?” In the hallway there was a trap door on the ceiling made of slatted boards; its connected string was taped against its face to keep it from swinging among us.
“Oh, yeah,” said Trey, “I’m sorry to say I won’t be able to let you use that space. I’ve still got lots of my grandma’s stuff up there.”
I shrugged this off, thinking that I wouldn’t need the storage anyway; I had very few items to begin with and by the time I accumulated enough, I assumed I would’ve already found a new place.
With haste— because I wanted to move out of Mom’s house— I took up in the room over the DAILY PRAISE antique shop.
I shoved an A/C unit in one of the windows on the anterior of the apartment that looked out on the parking lot and dropped a cheap full mattress in the corner; I even took the time to snatch a few ceramic pots from a yard sale that I filled with succulents and placed outside at the top of the exterior staircase.
Trey even let me use his washing machine he kept on the first story in the back room of the shop— I would hang the laundry out on a line strung between two old hickory trees; things were looking up and I was getting my life back. Weeks passed where I hardly thought of Max or the hell he had put me through.
Although Trey was a good ol’ boy with poor hygiene, I felt nothing but appreciation; he legitimately seemed interested in trying to help me out and sometimes, on the rare occasions where I’d have a night off, I’d sit out on the stairs and drink a few beers while he did the same on his landing. He would play country hits from his phone on a small Bluetooth speaker while he talked about how his folks had passed away in a car crash years and years ago and how his grandma had been the only one there to take care of him; she ran the antique store, and he took it over after her mind began to grace the ether.
I never asked him where she died in my room, because I felt like I already knew. I can’t say how I knew, but I had the overwhelming feeling that she’d been in bed when God took her. It’s due to the dreams I had; she died where I slept. I’d be dreaming of work or of Max— those dreams were a bitch— and suddenly an old woman with thin wispy hair framing a round face would grab my arm and I’d look at her and I would see her haloed in a circle of shimmering light. Call me a religious nut or whatever else you’d like, but I knew what I knew. Whenever she would enter my dreams, she would squeeze my arm, I would bolt awake, and I’d have a difficult time returning to sleep. I considered it a haunting, but beyond the occasional bad dream, I didn’t think it was worth much concern. It could’ve easily been chocked up to my own anxieties as well.
As I was returning home from a shift at the Exxon, I took the steps up to my apartment to find Trey there at the landing; his face was washed ruddy, curly red hair pushed behind his ears, and the overwhelming power of Old Spice emanated from him. In one hand he carried a bouquet of roses and in the other was a heart-shaped box of chocolates. My heart sank; I knew what was happening immediately.
“Oh,” he said, “I thought you were home already.” A long pause drifted between us before he stuck the roses and the box of chocolates out in front of his chest with stiff arms. “I was just wonderin’ if you would like to go out with me some time. I-I know this is weird and all, but I was thinkin’ you might give me a chance.”
Standing on the stairs, I tried speaking as calmly as possible so as to let him down easy. “I’m sorry, Trey, I think that’d be inappropriate. You’re my landlord and I just got out of a really bad relationship. I’m sorry.”
Trey shook his head, red face flushing even more so from intense embarrassment. “No, no, you’re right. I know that. Still. Go ahead and take these. I got ‘em for you.” He held out the gifts and I took them.
He angled by me on the stairs and by the time his feet hit the ground, he was long stepping out of sight. Truly, I felt bad for turning him down.
I took the flowers into the apartment and sat them on the counter of the kitchenette, not having a container to place them in; I nibbled on a chocolate from the box and soon drifted off to sleep. Working two jobs took its toll on me so that sleep often took me violently, quickly, without me having the opportunity to prepare for it.
When I opened my eyes again, it was dark and there was a pounding on my door; my initial thought was that Trey had returned to try and ask again. Then the crisp voice of Max rattled through the apartment. “Bitch! I don’t get why you’ve got to be so cold all the time! Let me in goddammit!” Another series of fists against the door followed.
I jumped from the bed, splashed in cold fear as I tried to gather my bearings. My pinky toe knocked the edge of my bed, and I clapped a hand over my mouth, letting out nothing more than a short whine. I stood in the dark, waiting to see if my movement had notified him of me being inside. Then I remembered that I was parked outside anyway. He knew I was home.
“Open up, bitch! I wanna’ talk to you!” He must’ve been drunk. How did Trey not hear this? How had Max found out where I live? Was I never going to escape him?
Peering out of the window looking over the parking lot of the antique store, I saw Max’s shitty Camaro parked directly alongside my Buick. Trey’s truck was gone.
I tiptoed to the hall near the door and thought about locking myself in the bathroom. What if Max broke in? What would he do? What if he begged me to return? What if he demanded it? What if he had only violence on his mind?
My feet froze in the hallway with my heart racing. The attic! My eyes darted to the ceiling in the hall. The string remained taped to the trapdoor, and I slyly made my way over to where I kept a broom. Careful not to bang the walls, I lifted the broom over my head and began swiping at the slack on the string, hoping to tear it from the door. After a handful of attempts, the cord swung free, and the small plastic end bopped me in the face. Still shaking, I lay the broom to the side and bit my bottom lip, hoping the hinges of the door were oiled well. As I delicately pulled the string, it opened without a sound and the step ladder spilled out. I climbed, keeping the string in my hand and once I’d made my way into the attic, I pulled the trapdoor up and waited, hearing— feeling the vibrations of him beating on the door.
I allowed myself a solitary, “Fuck,” whispered in the absolute darkness of the attic. The space was only large enough for me to squat and I remained that way, leaned against stacked cardboard boxes.
The thuds came in quick succession, one after the other— more screams that were now muffled to incoherence. All I had to do was outwait him and he would go away; what if that didn’t work? I could imagine it so vividly; Max would break down the door, trash the apartment, find the trapdoor and there I’d be, small and afraid, totally exposed.
But that’s not what happened. In the pitch black, time felt meaningless; it might’ve been minutes or an hour. I closed my eyes and focused on my own breathing. With time, Max’s voice receded, and I heard the sound of his Camaro squeal away.
It was miserably hot in the attic; I pushed my hair from my face and withdrew my phone from my pocket. I used the flashlight to examine my surroundings. What I found were your standard fare storage boxes with marker scribbles: X-MAS, DISHS, LITES, PHOTOS, G MAS. I saw the attic was much larger than the floor plan of my apartment. I began, on my knees, moving through the open spaces not cluttered with junk; I probably shouldn’t have, I wasn’t even supposed to be up there. It became apparent that mine and Trey’s apartments shared an attic and I climbed over boxes until I thought I might be above his place. I froze when I came upon an identical trapdoor on the opposite side of the building; it undoubtedly led down into his living quarters. A nugget— an idea— lodged itself in my brain. I could if I wanted, use the door, and check out his living space. I’d never once been inside of his home. It’s a stupid thought. When you see a door, you wonder what’s on the other side even if its taboo. This was my thought process. It’s silly.
Sufficiently spooked from Max and draped in spiderwebs, I maneuvered back to my apartment. I slipped, sending my brow into an overhead beam, directly on my scar. I saw stars and cussed, looking for the trapdoor.
That night, I went into Waffle House and Jarvis noticed I was spacing out; I couldn’t stop thinking about Max, how he’d found where I live, and what he might do next time. Because there’s always a next time with him.
“Everything alright?” asked Jarvis while I married ketchup bottles.
“Yeah. It’s just my ex.”
He leaned across the counter. “Why’d you ever go out with a loser like that, anyway?”
“I don’t know. He seemed nice until we moved in together. He’d apologize right after beating me up. Pretty shitty.”
“One of those guys, eh? My dad was like that.”
I thought about sharing that my dad was like that too but refrained. “I guess. We went to school together, you know, and he’d take me out on dates, and we’d go to the park for picnics, but then he got a house and practically begged me to move in with him.” I shook my head. “You know, the first time he hit me he took me out clothes shopping right after.”
“What made you stay?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I couldn’t even figure that out for myself. Sometimes I felt stupid and worthless for staying as long as I did; especially with people asking about it. Your mind will fuck you up if you let it. There were fleeting moments where I wished he were dead; that’s expected to an extent. Then there were moments where I wish he’d killed me instead. How bad is that?
Weeks passed and much to my delight, Max didn’t show up; I thought that perhaps it really was over. It should’ve been over ages ago.
Although Max stopped bothering me and that was great, Trey put a damper on what should’ve otherwise been a good thing. As per usual, I put my laundry in the washer and ran upstairs to do some dishes. When I stepped outside onto the steps, I saw that he’d removed the wet clothes from the washer and dumped them at the bottom of the steps leading to my door without a basket. In a fit of rage, I gathered them up in dirty armfuls, stomping them back to my apartment. There was no reason for him to be rude about it; I’d said I was sorry. I never would’ve expected such childish retaliation from Trey. It hurt.
Whenever I would see him as I went out to my car, I’d wave at him through the big anterior window of the antique shop; Trey would— especially if we’d made eye contact— swivel and stare off into nothing, totally ignoring me. He grew his beard out and he began to stink worse. If I’d catch him on his landing in the evenings, he’d be sitting in a fold-out chair, listening to his Bluetooth speaker cranked to max volume. Even with the space between us, I could smell the rot of onions— BO. When he’d knock on my door for rent, he’d bellow out a putrid stench that could burn your eyes. I felt partially responsible— there was no reason for me to, but I did all the same.
A knock came on my door in the middle of the day— I hoped that maybe Trey had come around to apologize to me for the way he’d been acting. He’d been a welcome companion during a trying time in my life and I was willing the notion he might change his attitude. But I was greeted by Max standing on my landing.
“So,” he said, “You’re finally home, huh?”
I froze. “What do you want?”
“I just want to talk.” Max grinned; a smile that I’d once found endearing— it was mischievous and playful. Now, it seemed horrendous as though he’d been a humanoid creature all along attempting to fall in line with human conventions. It was wrong and it made my stomach turn.
“About what?” I know I sounded frightened.
“About us, baby. I know I fucked up, alright? I know it’s my fault. But I want another chance.” His eyes pled, but I’d heard it before. It was a script, and I was tired of hearing the same lines over and over and over.
“Please leave me alone.”
“Don’t be like that. You know I love you. You know I do. Why don’t you come back home? I can make it right and we can be happy.” He held up a box with presumably a ring. “Marry me and I’ll never do anything bad again. Marry me and I’ll make you the happiest girl on planet earth.”
Had he lost his mind? My eyes darted from the box to his stony eyes. “You hurt me.” It was the only thing I could think to say in the moment. I should’ve screamed. I should’ve slammed the door and locked it. I shrank the door closed instead.
“C’mon, don’t be like that! Don’t shut me out.” His foot kept the door from closing and his arm shot through the crack— his fingers were clammy on my exposed shoulder. God I should’ve worn something other than a tank top.
“Just leave me alone!” I begged.
“I will. I promise. Just let me explain, alright? Give me a chance to talk to you.”
I didn’t want to give him that chance. He could’ve been a lawyer or better yet, a hypnotist. He didn’t deserve that chance. “No!”
Max pressed his other hand on the door and pried it open so as to give me a quick up-down with his eyes. “See? Let’s just talk.”
I don’t know what came over me; years of being put down might’ve crushed me— should’ve. I’m glad that I put my hands out and shoved him the way I did. The look of surprise on his face matched my own as he staggered backwards, his foot slipped on the top step, and he fell sideways down the iron stairs. I slammed the door shut as he screamed. I didn’t know if he was dead or alive, and frankly I didn’t care anymore. He’d done enough. I’d been through enough.
This time, I sent Max to the hospital. I didn’t feel bad. I wasn’t angry or scared. I didn’t feel anything. I wish I could say there was a big relief in me hurting him, but there wasn’t. He made me feel so empty. That’s the worst feeling of all.
That night, I dreamt of Trey’s grandma, and it was the most intense I’d ever had. She didn’t come to me as a kindly old woman. She came to me as a malicious banshee with razor sharp nails that dug into my stomach and tore my innards away raw. I burst from sleep in a heavy sweat, patting myself down, certain I was about to bleed to death.
Time went on and I’ve never seen Max again. Maybe he found a more naïve person to take advantage of. Maybe he got the help he so obviously needs, but something tells me that’s unlikely. There’s a part of me that hopes he did.
I dozed off while reading an Anne Rice novel, trying my best to keep my eyelids wedged apart after a particularly slow shift at Waffle House; I wasn’t scheduled to open the Exxon, so I was trying to enjoy the small amount of free time I was afforded. It was to no avail— the words on the page blurred and ceased to exist. The book fell face down onto my chest, and I slept partially upright with several pillows stuffed behind my head.
The grandma came, bathed in that shimmering light that sparkled out so harsh it could’ve only come from Heaven. Her expression stood out in stark contrast, heavy browed, vengeful— I could feel myself choking with unease— it was fear. Something was wrong.
The light broke and I saw that it wasn’t an old woman— it never was. It was Trey; it made no sense. It was Trey and he was sitting on the edge of my bed, taking pictures of me with the flash of his phone on. What a peculiar dream. Maybe some strange Freudian part of my brain. He sat naked and the stench wafted off him as though he were really there. It was startingly potent for a dream. The camara flashed. Then there was black sleep.
I did not wake with a start or a panic; it came like it should— slow and unannounced. Then the dream washed over me, and I angled myself upright on the bed, trying to rub sleepers from my eyes. What a peculiar dream.
My eyes scanned the place where Trey had been sitting in my dream— where he’d sat totally exposed. I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a screech at what I saw there. The blanket had been pushed to the side, the white sheet beneath contained a single brown streak. No way! That couldn’t be possible. Then I noticed a rank smell in the air, and I knew that he’d been there— for real.
A bit of dust trembled from the ceiling, and I heard someone shift around in the attic.