I get the third screw out, but the plate sticks in place. When I rest the screw on the ground, the plate swings down and splits my knuckles open. My whole hand throbs, but I keep going like it didn’t even happen. I can’t stop now, and I need both hands to get the last screw to turn. By the time I’m done with the front license plate and move to the back one, my fingers are sticky.

I take off a flannel, use it to wrap my hand, and work the screws on the back plate hard to get the job done fast. I’m careful to use my good hand to pull the car cover down as far as it will go, so no one will notice what I’ve done.

When I walk back to the campground with the icy plates stuck under my shirt, I have a lump in my throat that feels like it could kill me. For once, I wish I could cry, but it’s just not happening. The pain in my hand is so far beyond tears.

I do the best I can to clean the wound in the campground bathroom, ripping strips from the boy’s sheets for bandages. Then I get back to work before my fingers can stiffen, swapping the plates on my car. I hide the old ones with the spare tire in the trunk and vow that I’ll put everything right again as soon as I can.

— Chapter 12 —

When I wake up, there’s a note on my windshield. A blue half sheet of paper stuck under the wiper right in front of my face, reminding me that I have to leave tomorrow. It freaks me out to no end that the campground guy came over and put it there while I was sleeping. I didn’t wake up and he didn’t think to knock on the window or announce himself or cough or anything. I wonder if he watched me sleep. I wonder if he got something out of watching me sleep. Like those businessmen Matty told me about who buy dirty underwear, or the agnostic guy on the flyer at Cafe Decadence. I suppose if you have a thing for watching people sleep, working at a campground is a good place to get your rocks off. To each his own, as Margo would say. And I don’t guess anyone ever got hurt from someone just watching them.