Eventually his grip on my hand gets softer. “What are you thinking about?” he asks in his slow, sleepy voice. He likes to talk until the very last moment before he falls asleep.

“A tree frog,” I say. “What are you thinking about?”

“Donuts,” he says, and then he’s done for the day, breathing softly through his mouth.

In the dim light, I watch Adam drift away, the vee between his eyebrows softening until it disappears, and I wonder what it must be like to be one of those people who sleep soundly and wake up rested.

They say you spend like half your life asleep, but I think I’ve been awake for most of it. I wonder if I’ll ever stop waking up at the slightest little noise, thinking it could be my mom sneaking back home to take me with her. I wonder if sleeping is something I could ever learn to do.

— Chapter 20 —

I call Margo on Sundays at two o’clock from the pay phone outside of Woolworth’s. It’s my deal with her. She says someone needs to keep track of me. She says I can call collect, but I don’t. I take a roll of dimes with me. Last time I called, we used up the whole roll and I couldn’t stop shivering for hours afterward.

I don’t want to use the phone at Adam’s or at work. I don’t think anyone is tracking the call. It’s not like I’m someone important, like in those movies where a kid goes missing and men in black suits with fancy equipment swoop in and take over the family room to wait for phone calls and ransom notes. I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t taken Irene’s car or trashed the motorhome, my dad wouldn’t have even noticed or cared that I left. And I don’t only sort of believe that in a feeling sorry for myself way. I know it’s the truth and I think it’s better to call a spade a spade. But I use the pay phone just in case, so there’s no chance anyone in Little River could ever find out about Adam. And I don’t mention him to Margo. I just tell her I have a room in a boardinghouse, even though I’m not sure if boardinghouses are a real thing that still exist. I ended up confessing I was in Ithaca, but I tell her that I’m probably going to switch to a better place soon, so there’s no point in giving her my address. I think she knows I’m telling tales but worries if she pushes too hard, I won’t call again.

“Oh, thank god, girlie,” she says when she picks up the phone. “I thought you might not call.”

“I said I would. I always do.”