Mrs. Ivory’s car is backed into a space at the far end of the lot. My dad has Irene trained for his constant getaway plan. The car is spotless. Cleaner than Mrs. Ivory ever kept it. Vacuumed and dusted in all the cracks and crevices. There isn’t even any gunk in the indents of the steering wheel. The mirrors have the same streak-free shine as every surface in Irene’s apartment, and the floor mats are brand new. Irene’s got this angel air freshener strung from the rearview. It matches her keychain, and smells like the bathroom at Margo’s Diner. I pull it off and hang it like a Christmas ornament on the hedge that outlines the lot.

Irene’s legs are shorter than mine, but when I fumble for the lever to move the seat backward, the trunk opens instead. I go out to close it, but grab Irene’s emergency kit first, turn it over and look inside, so if anyone’s watching they’ll think I meant to open the trunk.

Back in the car, I survey the parking lot. It looks clear. I find the right lever, but the seat still won’t move, so I jerk my body forward. The seat gives and I get smushed against the steering wheel. I yank the lever and push back until it feels about right. I mess with the mirrors because I know you’re supposed to, but I don’t know where they’re supposed to be.

Cars start much easier when you have the key. First try, no problem, and I’m out of the parking lot and down the road like nothing is wrong or out of the ordinary. I take the long way so I don’t have to drive past the school and risk catching my dad outside for a smoke. And even though Mrs. Varnick is at the recital, I turn the headlights off when I drive past her house. Just in case.

First order of business is to yank garbage bags from the front of the motorhome and throw them out the door. Then I work on shoving them in the car. When I cram a bunch of bags into the trunk with my foot, something crunches loud in a way it’s not supposed to.