I breathed in deep, trying to lull myself back to sleep. This room, more than any other room in the house, smelled like cigarette smoke. The wood floors and mattress were steeped in it. Someone could smoke in here and you could walk in five minutes later and not know. This crossed my mind not for the first time.

I had quit cigarettes when Trish divorced me.

No, that wasn’t right. I’d smoked and drank to such an extreme after Trish divorced me that my lungs gasped for air while climbing the stairs. I’d smoked and drank so much that I could barely get out of bed on Saturday mornings when Sawyer was playing with the socks dangling off my feet and begging me for tickles. I had quit smoking to dig myself out of a hole. For Sawyer.

Fourteen years without smokes, and damn if I didn’t want one every day.

Thinking about smoking reminded me of the three-day school suspension I got in eighth grade for smoking in the bathroom, which always made me think of Mom.

I pictured Mom showing up in the vice principal’s office, her hair fresh out of curlers, her A-line dress buckled at her waist, stockings and sensible heels, looking proper and motherly, a severe look on her face that made me shrink in the uncomfortable vinyl chair. Anytime I had moved, the chair squeaked like I’d farted, which was both embarrassing and hilarious, so I’d tried to sit perfectly stiff and breathe shallowly. I’d assumed the cruel glare was meant for me until she opened her mouth.

Did Vice Principal McCrane think that pulling a child out of school for three days was going to help him get back on track, motivate him to study, and respect his teachers? Trevor, let’s go. Mr. McCrane, your office smells like cigarettes, and this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed. Does your wife suspend you?

Mom. Always on my side. Even when she shouldn’t have been. I hated her sometimes, really loathed her, and had good reason to, but tried to bury the hate because her sins were unintentional, borne of stupidity.

It hit me.

Heather’s not in bed with Em. She’s at Walmart, buying a lunchbox.

I sat up, reached under the bed for my shoes, dug inside the left one, and came out with a lighter and cigarettes.

I’d taken them from Troy’s glove box today. After hunting, we’d packed his pickup truck with the rifles and game coolers. His cell rang, so I’d gotten in the passenger seat to give him privacy to take the call. Sawyer was in the seat behind me, his attention on his phone. Sitting there, waiting, I’d opened the glove box. Inside was a mostly empty soft pack, the cellophane like a sleek dress wrapped around irresistible flesh.