We stare at each other, a game of chicken I’ve played with Granny before, but never when she had a shotgun in her hand.

And I’ve never won.

Therefore, it’s not surprising when I blink first.

“I wish I had a normal family!” I yell over my shoulder while setting my backpack and now an extra bag of clothes in the trunk.

“Wish in one hand, shit in the other,” Granny calls back. “You tell me which hand gets filled first.”

And this is how I become homeless. Will I have to sleep in my car? It’s a 1967 two-door Volkswagen Beetle. Not exactly livable space.

Maybe I should call Scarlett again. Tell her what’s going on. She could talk sense into Granny. Maybe.

But beyond that, I can’t ask for anything. She can’t send me money she doesn’t have to spare, and even if she could, where would I go? The roach motel on the south edge of town? Even that is likely full at the moment.

I take a deep breath. I can do this. I’m going to solve this problem on my own. I’m an adult. Nineteen years old.

The lump in my throat expands, despite the pep talk.

I guess I’ll try the housing center first.

Thankfully, the office isn’t too busy. Probably because it’s a month into the semester and everyone has a place to live by now.

The two clerks have students in front of them, but there’s no line. I stand behind the yellow tape and wait my turn.

The door opens behind me, letting in a too-warm breeze despite the fact that it’s nearly October, and I turn my head.

It’s him.

Fitz.

Abby’s boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend, I reckon.

He’s in the same clothes from early this morning, except he’s added a ball cap tugged down low over his eyes.

We lock gazes and as soon as the flash of recognition hits his face, I flip around like a rabbit running from a snake.

My face burns. Smoldering. Combusting.

I still can’t believe he thought I was watching Abby and her faux beau do it on the floor. Like I ever wanted any part of it. The way he looked at me . . . like I was some kind of freak.

She’s got special needs.

I shake the thought away and tug at my shorts. Glancing down, I notice a dark ink stain right near the crotch, next to a greyish brown dirt smudge, probably from moving boxes. Ugh.

I straighten my spine and focus on the clerks behind the counter, remembering that Fitz doesn’t matter. What he thinks of me is irrelevant. He’s probably just like Abby, who delighted in making comments like, I love how you don’t care what people think, and Is that really the look you’re going for? or You look pretty in your own way, I suppose. Insults sometimes disguised as compliments and sometimes not, meant to make me feel as small as possible.