She came to the door quickly, ghostly, a stick figure in her white nightgown. Her hair was mussed and unnerving. Dye jobs were one of her only vanities, but now her hair looked like a striated cliff face, red rock beneath a band of gray. Her hand fluttered up to her scalp. “My roots,” she said. “I know.”

We hugged, careful with each other. I recognized the smell of her shampoo. When I was younger, I’d snuck into the bathroom after her showers to feel the humidity of the air, full of smells I associated with her skin.

I told her everything had gone to shit. With Tilly. I’d tried to make it better, but I’d only fucked it up worse. Now things were as bad as they’d ever been.

“She does that,” my mom said. “She makes you blame yourself.”

I shook my head. It wasn’t like that. I’d done her wrong. I’d lied. Now I wanted to rest. “Here,” I added. “I want to sleep here.”

She offered the guest bed and said, “Or you could just share mine.” I said: “Yes,” I wanted that. I didn’t bother taking off my jeans or sweater. I curled into her bed—still the old king, so large for a woman alone—and clutched one pillow to my chest like a lover. I stayed awake to hear the steady rhythm of her sleeping breath. I fell asleep with my hand on her shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, knowing it would last until morning.

TILLY

I took this room because the rent was cheap, but now I guess you could say I’m a den mother. This place has a reputation for helping women get their shit together. There’s plenty of space and usually somebody to look after your kid if you need to work a shift. It’s a junky blue clapboard that used to be pink. You can see the old color where the new paint’s cracked. It’s right off the interstate, first exit south of the penitentiary.

I forgot how cold the desert gets after the sun goes down. You tell yourself you remember every little thing about a place but really you forget most of it. The land goes on for miles and miles and there’s nothing to swallow the cold or send it back where it came from. Sometimes I sit on the front porch for hours, watching other girls passing through the door and out again. Most of them work at the fast-food joints along the highway. They’re coming and going all the time. Most of them have kids of their own. Some of them are trying to kick habits. Some of them are pulling tricks.