“That woman,” Margo says, “thinks she’s pretty high and mighty these days. Her big star of a son bought her a Cadillac, which she believes gives her perpetual right of way.” She rolls her eyes. “Like Cathy Spencer needed an excuse to be a bigger bitch.”

It’s funny to think of Mrs. Spencer as a bitch. I always just thought of her as a grown-up.

“I saw him,” I tell Margo, “Matty. This spring. I think they did his teeth.”

“Like they aren’t real?”

“Exactly. They don’t look like they used to.”

“Amazing.” Margo shakes her head. “What will they think of next? They nip things that don’t need tucking. Give fake teeth to someone with perfectly decent ones. That boy had fine teeth to begin with. He never had any problems chewing.”

I yawn. I can’t help myself.

“Well,” Margo says. “What’s say we close up here and turn in for the night. You must be exhausted.”

I think of the motorhome, the way it used to smell like mildew and rust. I think about driving down the dirt road to get there. I worry I’ll end up puking on the side of the road again. “I don’t think I can do it, Margo. Go to the motorhome. I don’t think—”

“Don’t be silly. I have my couch all pulled out and made up for me to sleep on so you can have my bed.”

“You do?”

“Of course,” she says. “Your father can’t very well yell at me for overstepping my bounds now, can he?” She claps her hand over her mouth. Her face goes pale. “I’m sorry. I just—I always felt bad taking you back to that motorhome. I didn’t mean to…”

I’m ready to cry, to know that Margo might have actually wanted me. To know that she really would have taken me home with her if she could. But I think if I cry she will and if she cries I’ll cry harder and between us, we might have too many tears to ever stop. So instead, I say, “I can sleep on the couch. Really, it’s okay,” because I can’t let any of it sink in. I could drown, so easily, I could drown.

“April,” she says, grabbing my arm and shaking it, “use that delicate condition to your advantage. Take the bed.”

Margo’s apartment looks pretty much the same as it always has, except she has a cat now. “I’m one of those ladies,” she tells me when a dark blur darts across the living room as we kick our shoes off. “That’s Stuart.” She points to the chair he’s taken refuge under. Yellow eyes stare back at us.