The cards under the bed won’t let me rest in this space anymore. I feel uneasy being here alone with them, reminded of all the gaps in my understanding. I make a sandwich for lunch and eat half of it. I stare out the window, debating. I could curl up with my denial in this apartment, pretend that none of this is happening and pass the time with blinders on like the carriage horses we saw driving in. Or I could try. I could look for a way to patch the gaps in my plans for a future of my own. I could go out and see what this city has to offer. I could make something of this time, no matter how much I never wanted it. I could find a job.

I take a breath and decide to leave.

VI.

THE COURTYARD OUTSIDE OUR DOOR IS QUAINT, with brick paving, a fountain in the center, and four raised beds full of ferns and a couple of small trees. The light breaks up between the leaves, casting dappled shadows across everything. There’s only a handful of units here—it’s a small complex. I imagine myself sitting out here drawing when it’s not too hot. It’s a nice thought, if impractical. It’s already sweltering and barely past noon. And the smell is enough to gag on—dead shellfish and vomit.

A door opens at the far end, and an older man steps outside, shaking a cigarette from the pack in his hand. He lights it up, takes a drag, and eyes me standing near the fountain. I look away, but he’s already sidling over with an outstretched hand.

“I’m Jim,” he says politely.

I feel relief. Jim. It sounds normal enough. He looks normal enough. His cropped, white beard wraps around his chin like a bandage holding his jaw in place.

“Cat,” I tell him, taking his hand in mine with a quick shake.

I feel the missing fingers before I see them, the sense that there’s just not enough there to grab. I make a point not to look, but when he reaches up to scratch at his beard, they’re in plain sight—the smooth, glossy knuckles that leave something to be desired. It reminds me of the cards, the space where a sentiment should be.

“Everyone calls me Butcher,” he adds.

I swallow. So much for normalcy. At least that explains the fingers—I think.

“You new?” He says it like a cross between a question and a statement.

I nod to our door at the end. “Yes.”

His eyes trace over our door. “You must be Mary and Gary’s kid? The girl. The one upstate somewhere.”

Mary and Gary. I feel nauseous. “Yeah, right. My grandma died, so I’m here now.”

He nods silently for a moment, smoking. “Sorry about your loss. But welcome, all the same.”