I sat up. I had to tell Tyson not to wear his orange jacket today. With the blanket wrapped around my shoulders I dragged myself to the kitchen. The floor was cold through my socks. I looked out the kitchen window at the oil-tank meter. Less than an eighth of a tank. The woodstove wasn’t burning, so I filled the base of it with crumpled newspaper and then wrapped kindling in some more, lighting it all up with a grill lighter. When it was ready, I fed logs into the fire.

It was quarter to eight. We were out of coffee filters, so I stuffed a paper towel into the coffeemaker and filled it with grounds, and then I poured eight cups water into the back part. I plugged in the coffeemaker, and it screamed and gurgled.

I heard a quiet voice over the sound of the coffeemaker and the popping of the woodstove. “Gwus?”

Mom was up.

I opened her door and peered into the darkness. Her curtains were blacker than mine and the sun didn’t rise toward her windows. “Yeah?”

“Bring me some juice?” She didn’t open her eyes.

“You want coffee too?”

“No, just juice. I’m going to rest some more.”

I got her juice and set the cup on her nightstand.

She picked it up and took a sip. “Thank you.” Her voice was grateful, as it usually was when she needed something.

I poured a cup of coffee and set it on the cedar chest in the living room and while it cooled I went to my room and made my bed, straightened the corners of the red comforter, and when I finished I went back to the living room and sat on the couch and picked up the coffee and blew on it. I wanted a smoke. I didn’t know if Mom would get up to use the bathroom, but after tapping my foot on the floor for a long time, I went to my room, shut my door behind me, and cracked the window.

The sun was bright on my face and the first drag brought me to myself. Smoke filled the air and showed the sunrays. I remembered the cut on my face. It was tender, coarse, hard. I picked at it the way my father picked at the sores on his legs. It wasn’t ready to peel. Fresh blood dotted the tip of my finger.

By ten thirty Mom wasn’t up. I crept in her room, and I shook her arm.

“Hm?”

“I’m going out for a bit,” I said.

“What time is it?”

I told her.

“You want to bring me coffee?”

I poured her coffee and put five sugars in it.

She grabbed the cup and sipped with shaky hands. “Thank you, honey.”

I inched toward the door, had my body turned sideways so she couldn’t see the cut.

“Where you going?” she said.

“To Tyson’s.”

“You eat?”