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I run a finger through the center of the scoop, and it’s sticky with residue. “The fuck?” I look around as if something in this room will we give me the answer.
    Fuck, is this hers or Cam’s? Either way, I need to know what’s been cooked. I use the file to move around the rest of the shit in the drawer but don’t find a bag, so I sit on the bed. It sags.
    This isn’t the first time. Two years ago she detoxed for a month. She needed to. Started getting the sores from picking.
Least she didn’t get the mouth, because she’d never be able to work again. No one tips a toothless waitress. She told the CPS people that I was with my dad. Gave ’em some bullshit number. I hid out whenever they came around. One of the women she worked with hooked me up with food. It was like I was some embarrassing pet.
    Fuck this. I’ll kick her ass before I go through that again. Wonder when she started back up? There’s no money, and no one around here slings meth . . . except . . . motherfucker. Charity’s dad. I toss the pipe back in the drawer, slam it, and head to the bathroom. I hover over the toilet, but nothing comes.
    I sit on the floor with my back to the tub. What the fuck am I gonna do? I can’t have her fucking nodding off with Cameron in the house. I’m sure he’s the one paying, and he’ll be back, like all the rest, and he’ll be able to do whatever he wants. Like all the rest. I punch the cabinet in front of me and a flat echo returns. I pinch my head between my knees and close my eyes, breathe slow, and enjoy the sensation around my temples.
    I can’t remember during which boyfriend it was when I found this position, but it’s the only good thing any one of them’s given me. He was the first one that hit her for hours. I was used to a few slaps and a punch, but this one liked to torture her, and I was too scared to tell him to stop, could only focus on drowning out the sound. The pillow over my head worked at first, but if she screamed, I still heard it. She screamed more often and that’s when I tried my knees. Breathing adds a constant noise, and the sensation soothes me. Like now. I think I’m okay. I release my head and open my eyes. My feet come into focus, the nails stretched over my toes. I see myself, from above, crouched like a rat in its
cage. I’m holding the file just as hard as I’m trying to hold on to my emotions. I take a deep breath, grab my foot, and start chiseling away.

    Rob rolls up, and I open the door before he can knock. “I’m ready.” I step out and he looks surprised, but turns and we head down the steps.
    â€œAll right. You look good to go.”
    I am. After I took care of my toenails I found a jar of peanut butter and a roll and made a sandwich. I threw on my cleanest gear and left my mom a note. Told her I was out. That’s all. Don’t need to provide all the details. Not if Cam might have a chance to read them. Not if she’s gonna be passed out.
    We hit the main road and turn toward town. I have no clue where the gym is, but Rob leads the way and is light on his feet, bouncing every so often. “So, I’ll basically be paired up with you. Show you the ropes. It’s Friday so we’re working on takedowns from the clinch.”
    I nod like I understand.
    â€œWe’re not punching or kicking, just working on getting to the ground fight, gaining leverage.”
    Beyond the fights Cameron watches, I’ve seen some of this shit on TV. Liddell, Penn, Lesnar. I think I know what he means, the slow part where they roll around, looking like they’re trying to fuck each other. This is gonna suck balls.
    Rob draws up to me. “Fuck, you got a cup?”
    I screw up my face. He cracks his knuckles off his junk. There’s a hollow plastic sound. That kind of cup. I shake my head.

    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll watch out, but you need one.”
    The way