Back when we set the table each night for dinner and argued over whose bath towel was whose, my mom read me books about children who lived in train cars. Helen loved the series first when she was a little kid. So sometimes when my mom was too tired or later when she was too sick, Helen would relent and read to me on the sofa.

I listened and understood that for me, the books would be different than they were for my sister because of the memories that surrounded them. For her, those books were a set of shiny hardcovers she read with a flashlight under the covers. For me, they would stay tethered to the sadness of my mom lying sick in the dark room, of my teenage sister burning grilled cheese for our lonely supper.

And then my mom died, as we knew she would. And Helen moved away, which left me feeling surprised and my father feeling betrayed. Soon after I started calling him Sonny, the way my grandma did. There wasn’t a conversation about this, just an abrupt change in how my sister and I addressed a man who seemed to no longer have the capacity to parent.

Anyway, when Sonny first came riding up the road to the ranch with a shipping container loaded on a forklift, I thought of those books about the children who live in train cars. Sonny bought one for himself and one for me. That’s how I would explain his style of love—he bought me a separate steel box to live in. Alone.

Sonny says that in the future, we’ll all live in containers so that we can move easily. He says we’ll need to mobilize quickly to chase more stabilized climates. He says he’s advantaged us, that our old ramshackle farmhouse will buckle with the first flood. Sonny believes we’ll have to weather high-powered storms and possibly military invasions, once our enemies see our weakened infrastructure. He didn’t think of it himself—there’s a whole network of men arranging shipping containers around their property like tuna cans in a pantry.

He talks to them—those other men preparing for a disastrous future—all hours of the day and night. Mostly online, in chat rooms and comment threads. A few on his cell phone, but often in a weird code, because they believe the government can tap into cell signals.

I suppose they count as a support network. United in fear and simmering rage. They are always a signal or keystroke away from one another. Because Sonny is always with them, I am always left by myself. Sonny and his friends send photos and videos to one another to compare their full cellars. They teach each other how to dig wells and assemble weapon caches. They talk a lot of politics. Sonny has very strong opinions about politics. He’s mapped out detailed diagrams that explain the corrupt forces that have infiltrated our country. He posts the diagrams online for his “friends” to see.

The neighbors who first checked in on us all backed away. The only proof they exist are the Tupperware and casserole dishes we never returned.

I knew better than to complain.

I tried to get used to being alone. Weeks could go by with me seeing hardly anyone besides Sonny. Days would go by without him speaking to me.

In the Boxcar books, part of the fun is how the children live on their own. Those kids don’t answer to anyone. No one scolds or punishes them. They take care of themselves and each other.

Sometimes, I hear Sonny ranting. Everything is suspicious, counterfeit, and ruinous. The shipping container children experience independence differently. We have to find our own ways to connect to the world.

I homeschool. Mostly I watch YouTube videos, TikTok, and Instagram. Always I am staring at someone else’s life through the tiny screen of my phone or the slightly larger screen of my dad’s old laptop. The platforms work like a maze of mirrors. One channel leads to another. You find your way from one influencer to someone else. They create collabs and shout-outs.

Shea outshines all of them.

She’s what gets me through.