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she is, half dressed for work, on her belly, snoring. One empty bottle is tipped over on the dresser, and there’s another one on the floor by the bed.
    “Get up!” I shriek. “Your shift starts in less than an hour!”
    She doesn’t even stir. And in her stillness, I want to pick up an empty bottle and beat her senseless with it. Shake her, slap her, scream. I want to sink my nails into her limp arm to the point of drawing blood and make her respond to me.
    Instead I turn off the light, shut the door and find Evan. Holding him in my lap, I stroke his hair and tell him it will be okay. I smile at Maisie and tell her I’ll make supper soon. When my voice is steady enough, I find my mom’s new work number on the fridge and call, telling them she’s deathly ill with food poisoning and won’t make it in tonight. They’re still too new to know that this will happen again. And again. And again. Until someone catches on and, in a humiliating scene, fires her. Then we’ll pack what little we have and move to some other dump or shelter or friend’s basement to start it all over again.
    I know one thing tonight, with Evan’s hair against my cheek and Maisie waiting for me to feed her: I’ve had enough of the wooden chairs, concrete floors, suitcases and bedbugs. The lying, laundry, excuses, hunger, dirt and piss. My fingers tremble as I touch Evan’s hair. I’ve had enough, and I’m getting out.

FOUR
    Every time I start to drift off on their bedroom floor, Maisie scratches at her legs, like she always does in her sleep. Evan hasn’t even stirred. I let them stay up late to watch a rerun of The Wizard of Oz on TV . Cable is a recent luxury, and we only have it now because it’s a rental incentive for the apartment. Our television’s not pretty, but it works. And it’s tough. Uncle Richie, Jacquie’s dad, once chucked an empty vodka bottle at the screen, offended by the weather forecast. It didn’t even chip.
    I could get up and move to my own bed or sleep on the sofa. I’m supposed to share a room with Mom. I have a camping cot set up next to her bed. Most nights, though, especially lately, I can’t even stand to hear her breathing next to me. On those nights, I pull the cushions off the sofa instead and drop them on Maisie and Evan’s floor. Something about watching them sleep makes me feel less like beating Mom with a tire iron.
    On nights like this, I pull out my notebook. It isn’t a journal, exactly—more for writing stories, poems, things I don’t want to say out loud. I’d rather douse this entire building with gasoline and light a match than have this discovered and read by another living soul. I’ve found a pretty good hiding spot for it too—inside my suitcase. I slip it in where the lining is ripped and maneuver it to a place near the base, where it’s not visible. Not that anyone’s looking.
    I drag my suitcase off the shelf in their closet and start to root around for it. It has slipped past the spot I usually leave it. There’s a moment of panic while I grope around, imagining that Evan has found the notebook and covered it in crayon. Or worse, that Mom has. My poetry would trigger a binge for sure. There, I’ve found its hard corner. I work it out through the frayed lining, the pen tucked tight in the coil binding. Then I tiptoe into Mom’s room—she’s still out cold—and grab my flashlight from under my cot. She doesn’t even twitch.
    With a pen in one hand and the flashlight in the other, I wait for the words to come. After a minute I flip to a story near the back and pick up where I left off. Abby, my protagonist, is making a suicide pact with her twin sister. If their mother goes ahead and marries her abusive boyfriend, they’ll drink poisoned Kool-Aid. Her mother has just announced the wedding date. I’m not sure if I’ll off Abby or not, but I’m pretty sure the sister will at least become a heroin addict. I only scribble another paragraph, though, before the heaviness