Allister scrapes the spoon around the rim, licks it, and tosses it in the trash. His eyes smile even when his mouth doesn’t. They’re brown and hopeful, shaped like hickory leaves with accents near the temples.

He puts his legs down and grips the bench, smirking at me from the side. “Have I convinced you that brownie sundaes are far superior to cupcakes or whatever the hell?”

I stick my spoon deep into the ice cream, eager to match him where he is. “I think you might have convinced me.”

Sawyer

November 2

Dear Diary,

It’s my one-month anniversary in the free world. I’ve continued to shoot with Uncle Rod and stare at the ceiling. I don’t do any of my homework. All of my teachers know that I’m struggling, but they continue to ask me to follow the rules.

I’m not following any rules anymore. I’m eating, and sleeping, and hiding in the shed whenever I want to. I do whatever I want. The more people ask me to do nice things, the more I want to do bad things.

Momma has forced Annie to be nicer to me. I wanted that last week but don’t anymore. Sometimes I think we’re supposed to fight. Some days I want her paying me attention, and some I want her out of my sight forever.

I feel stronger. Like maybe what was bothering me isn’t as bad as I thought before and I can manage my emotions as long as I keep a healthy distance and keep doing whatever I want.

I made a sandwich in the kitchen earlier, didn’t notice Momma sitting at the table until much later. She was sitting there with a half-empty beer falling over in her lap, and her eyes were leaking like she’d poured the drink right into them.

Had to wonder for a minute if she’d fallen asleep or died sitting up. It was intriguing.

“Sawyer, are you and your uncle getting along?” If cigarettes could speak, the husk in their voice would match hers. A raggedy voice.

“Fine,” I said.

“Are y’all bonding?”

“Define bonding.”

“Having fun?”

Define fun. I nodded.

I have no feelings about my uncle except for objective ones that any normal person would have. He’s a bozo with a limited mind. And all the men Momma has chosen as good men have been bozos. I don’t think Rod is the best person for a mentally ill person to be spending time with. I don’t think Momma understands my condition. The doctor doesn’t either.

“How’s the doctor treating you?” she asked.

“He’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Just fine.”