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his room.

    The rest of Drew’s day was spent unpacking. He had positioned the bed beside the window—when he was a kid, his bed had been positioned the very same way—so that the Wards’ place was the first thing he saw when he woke up, and the last thing he saw when he fell asleep.
    The walls still needed painting, but at least they were a clean slate. One was now home to that cockeyed bookcase, while the other accommodated his dresser. He stacked boxes along a wall he hoped would house a future purchase of a desk and a chair, though that would have to wait. Cash was tight, and his decision to leave home had included the hasty decision to abandon his job at the local grocery store. It had been a stupid thing to do, but it had felt right at the time. He wanted to start fresh, completely clean, and his grocery store job had been the very thing that had funded the life he was now running from. Bagging groceries and, later, ringing up clipped coupons had kept the Morrisons afloat for years. He didn’t want to be reminded of that every time he clocked in for his shift. And, if his mother was miraculously cured of her agoraphobia, he didn’t want her rolling a cart full of booze into his checkout lane.
    After he’d spent nearly an entire day organizing, the strawberry shake debacle had been forgotten and his stomach twisted with hunger. It was either pudding cups or going out to eat, so he resolved to take a quick trip to the Taco Bell, pick up a couple of burritos, and call it a night.
    He made a beeline down the hall, his truck keys in hand, but his plan was diverted by an unlikely sight. Mickey stood in the kitchen, the same pair of yellow rubber gloves Drew had worn pulled up to his elbows. His white-haired roomie stood hunched over the kitchen sink, scrubbing the stained porcelain with an expression of startling concentration.
    Andrew stood at the mouth of the hallway, afraid to move, as if moving would scare Mickey and cause him to run. The smell of bleach soured the air, but the sweetness of Drew’s satisfaction more than made up for it. He had hoped that scrubbing the bathroom would motivate Mick to get up and do the same; it appeared that he had been correct.
    Mickey eventually noticed his housemate standing there, watching him with what must have been a stupid grin on his face. He stopped what he was doing—caught in the act—as though scrubbing the sink were some sort of crime. “Hey,” he said.
    “What’re you doing?” Drew asked.
    “Cleaning. The bathroom doesn’t match the rest of the house now. So, you know...”
    “Well...that’s awesome.” Hooking a thumb toward the front door, he gave Mick a questioning look. “I’m picking up food. You want a burrito?”
    With those canary yellow gloves giving the big oaf a comical appeal, Mickey eventually nodded with a crooked smile.
    “Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”
    “I’ll pick up an apron for you while I’m out,” Drew teased. “It’ll match your gloves.”
    Climbing into the cab of his truck, Drew paused in thought. Maybe this was going to work out. As odd a couple as they were, maybe he and Mickey would rekindle their friendship. Maybe it would be just like old times. Shoving the key into the ignition, he felt better about the future than he ever had before.

CHAPTER FOUR
    T he rumble of Mickey’s TransAm roused Drew the next morning. Listening to the Pontiac scream down the road, he rolled onto his side and pressed his face into his pillow with a cotton-muffled groan. It felt early—way too early for Mickey to be up. He squinted across the room at the digital alarm clock he had brought from home, the numbers glowing like the cherry of a burning cigarette: a few minutes past eight.
    “What the hell?” he murmured, the heels of his palms pressing into the sockets of his eyes. First the guy went full-fledged Donna Reed, and now he was up earlier than Drew. Next up: Mickey would return home with armloads of groceries and the insatiable