I TURN ON the TV in the living room, open a bottle of gin, and sit down with my feet up. The more I drink, the more I think about him. With the bottle in my hand, I go upstairs. Taking a swig, I stare at my parents’ door. I drink out the bottle, wasting gin on my shirt and my arm. Laughing, I go in their room.

His pictures are everywhere. So are hers. Their bed still the same way they left it—with the spread on and the sheets tucked under. On my way to his closet, I try to remember Anthony’s number. It popped up on JuJu’s cell when I first got home. She cussed him out and changed her number the next day. Then three times since then. He quit calling after she said she would give the FBI his number.

The door to my father’s closet always opened extra easy. He only had three suits, but he owned a lot of shirts, all white. I bury my nose in ’em one at a time. Then, sitting on the bed, I drink until my throat and belly burn. In the hall, I take out my new cell, and dial his number. He don’t answer right off, on purpose I know it. So, I call again, begging this time. That’s when he pick up. “Daddy—”

“Apologize.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“I told you, nobody wants you. Loves you. Just me.”

He orders my bus ticket without me asking. He gonna meet me at the Greyhound station tomorrow night. But I gotta leave now so I can make the last bus. “If you mention anything to anybody, I’ll—”

“I know, Daddy. I don’t wanna come back here no more anyhow.” I look around the room. Think about India and her friend. “Everybody know what I done.”

“And, Charlie—this is your last chance.”