What was Anita to do but to take it? Her piss (it was hers … right?), booze, and sweat clung as readily to … James’ sleeve as Anita to his hand, though it did not let go nearly as quickly. No, it seemed intent on dragging everyone in nose’s reach under into its prickling, stale hopelessness.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” Anita said, clutching her stomach as a wave of nausea passed over her. “This is easier at night, James, but no one really cares if you’re fast enough.”

Important lessons to impart upon a developing young man.

She tripped, staggered, and repeatedly fell against her tallest son’s arm, but ambled on like the waking dead on a mission. She hoped if she haunted the world, she’d be a nice ghost. The mother that would have kept Noah confident enough to not go chasing love on a damned dock instead of the one that had yelled at him after the fact.

Anita cast a guilty, sidelong look to her ‘son’, but bolstered herself with the thought that some things were necessary.

“Before,” she admitted, then straightened her back for a full three seconds. “Sometimes the windows get stuck, honey, and they need a little help.”

He would figure out eventually that those windows were supposed to stay locked against people like them, but for now? Little (huge!) James had the whole world ahead of him, and need not trouble himself with the details of their survival.