TILLY

Harrison Street wasn’t what I’d been picturing. There were strip clubs flashing neon signs and homeless guys sleeping behind Dumpsters, hiding from fog so heavy it felt like rain. The sky was gray like raw shrimp. The trees on the street looked dead but their roots looked alive. They pushed through the asphalt like tapped veins showing for needles.

But it was funny, you could tell the apartments on these blocks cost serious money. Their walls were the color of crayons, salmon pink and mint green, with big glass windows and patios full of ferns. It had been my hope from the first day, the first neon cross on the pee stick, that my kid would spend his life in places I could never afford.

He was waiting on the sidewalk, leaning against a big steel door. I double-parked our truck and climbed down without killing the ignition. Here he was, my boy. He looked just like his father, too much skin for his body. He smiled, very tight, and said, “I’d hug you, but I’m sweaty.”

“Do it anyway.”

He laughed at this, though I hadn’t meant it as a joke, and squeezed me with his dangling arms. They were paper-white and skinny, knobs sticking out of his elbows. Every time we talked on the phone, it sounded like he was pacing across his office or his living room, and his face showed it, full of worry that couldn’t walk itself away. His face was gaunt: sharp cheeks, big skull, wet eyes. I kept him close for a long time, running my palms along his shoulder blades, then down his bumpy spine. I’d made every part of him.

He pulled away gently, like I was a fragile toy he was putting down. I heard Stella’s door slam shut. She’d come around the side of the truck. I followed his eyes, following her body getting closer.

“Abe?” She shook his hand. “It’s good to meet you.”

He seemed restless. “We should get everything unloaded.”

Our things didn’t amount to much: a few boxes and some garbage bags. I’d thought bags would be easier to stuff into tight spaces. I’d left a lot of things in Lovelock because I never wanted to see them again, but I’d made Stella help me pack the kitty statues and all of Abe’s little projects. I’d labeled that box CATS, writing the word in careful letters, once on each side.

“We should be careful with this one.” I pointed. “It’s fragile.”

Abe lifted it easily. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you up.”

“I guess I’ll drive the truck back to the rental,” Stella said. “We can’t just leave it in the street.”

“You know the drop-off lot?” Abe asked. He couldn’t hear the irritation in her voice, or else he wasn’t responding to it.

“No,” she said. “But I have an address.”

What did she want? She wanted an offer, or at least attention.