Calling and asking How’s it going, Jacey?—in this guilty-sounding voice, and I say, kind of mumbling, Okay. (Not calling him Dad. Not calling him anything.) And there’s silence, so he says in the fake-Dad voice You okay, Jacey? And I say Yeh sure. And he says How is your mother, Jacey?—which is a trick question, so all I say is Mom’s okay. Like rolling my eyes. The asshole hasn’t got a clue what he sounds like, but this time I’m still high, still feeling good and not like shit, which is what Dad makes you feel like, except not now, now I am inside the Spider-Man costume, laughing in his face—What the fuck do you care? And Dad’s so shocked, he can’t even answer at first, then finally sputtering—Don’t talk to me like that, goddamn you. Who the hell do you think you are! I am serious. I care about your mother, and I care about you.

Laughing at him, saying Fuck all we care about you. And Mom too says—Fuck him.

So Dad is shocked. Like he couldn’t believe that his wife/my mother would say such words aloud is ridiculous, but he will talk himself into it, and the new wife will believe him. Sure.

Turn it all inside out to justify his behavior.

Sure. I know.

Why, you are gonna die, asshole. Spider-Man is closing in on you!

Prowling the hospital. Gliding like Spider-Man on invisible threads. No one does more than glance at the ID on your shirtfront. Not a glance at your bloodshot eyes, your zombie grin like a crack in concrete.

Running out of cash. Restless sensation, like you’re crazy hungry—but not for food.

Floor below, take the stairs. Easy access. Carrying a tray, like from the cafeteria downstairs. Bustling hallways, staff change, seven p.m. Mingle with visitors, enter a room, and if there’re people inside back out, honest mistake, easy to make in the hospital. (“Hey sorry—I guess I’m on the wrong floor!”), but if there’s nobody in the room except a sleeping/comatose patient, go to the bedside table, see if there’s a wallet in a drawer, glasses, hearing aid, quick remove the wallet, quick remove the cash, replace the wallet, nobody knows.

Heart pounding like an e-shot to the chest: cool.

Scored seventy-three dollars, first time.

Vaping gives me the courage. Brain rush. Running up the stairs two, three at a time—then flying. Spider-Man!

To be able to afford vaping, you need to prowl and scavenge. But to be able to prowl and scavenge, you need to vape.

Second time, one hundred ten. Plus some old guy’s fancy wristwatch in the bedside drawer along with dentures, hearing aids. (The patient’s in the bed, sprawled, with his mouth open, skin like yellow leather, IV fluids dripping into his bruised arms.)