A List of Cages(51)

When a cool glass of water is thrust into my hand, I gulp it down. My vision clears, and I see Russell’s lips curl. He sniffs the air, disgusted, and I cringe in shame. All he says is, “Shower.”

My arms and legs hurt even worse than before, but the water feels nice. I pick up the soap, scrubbing my stinking body and hair. The water is running cold by the time I climb out.

My mouth tastes stale and fuzzy. The bathroom door is wide open, and I don’t see Russell. Hurrying now, I don’t waste time putting the toothpaste on the brush; I squirt some directly into my mouth. It’s so sugary and solid, so close to food, that before really thinking, I’ve swallowed it.

I’m coughing when Russell’s shadow falls over the floor.

I turn away, but I can feel his eyes on my back. He tosses a pair of sweatpants onto the ground. I pull them on, then stumble straight to the trunk and climb inside. I look up at him to say, See? I’m doing it. I am. But there’s nothing to read on his face. Cold, blank, he shuts the trunk again. When I look up, the stars are glowing bright.





HOW MANY DAYS have passed?

I don’t know.

There’s a pattern. Waking up to the beams of light. Being hungry, getting water, then using the toilet. Sometimes I make it before he comes.

Sometimes I don’t.

The trunk opens, and my eyes blur at the brightness.

“Good,” Russell says. Today I’ve made it.

After I use the bathroom, I slide to the floor. I’m still kneeling when he sets a plate on the floor beside me. A ham and cheese sandwich. My eyes blur, this time with emotion. I can’t remember him ever making food for me before.

I try to say thank you, but the words won’t come out, so I just nod, hoping he’ll understand. It tastes good, but suddenly my stomach seizes up and I gag.

The approval on his face vanishes. “Slow down.”

When I take another bite, I gag again. He moves to take the sandwich, and without thinking, I’ve pulled it to my chest. The vein pulses in his neck as he rips the sandwich from my hands and throws it in the trash.

I’ve done it again. Fighting. Fighting. Stop fighting.

I get up, shaking, and crawl to the trunk, only to find it closed. With two hands, I lift the heavy lid and climb inside. Soon I hear the lock. Looking up into the darkness, I start to cry.


A memory, so clear. Me, lying on my mat during nap time at preschool, missing my parents in the deep, painful way you miss someone who’s died. I began crying and calling for them. I must have been only three or four years old, and I remember believing that when I said their names, they could hear me wherever they were. I could see my thoughts rushing through clouds and outer space like magic to find them. They could hear me calling and would come for me.

I know it’s pointless, but I find myself doing it now. Projecting thoughts and whispering names. Trying to send out a message that will never be received.




“What’s going on with you?” Emerald asks. We’re lying in her bed under her butterfly blanket. Her head rests on my chest, and I run my fingers through her long loose hair, down her bare shoulder. “Did you take your drops today?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re acting, I don’t know, antsy.”

“I’m always antsy.” But I know what she means. It’s definitely more intense than usual, but it doesn’t feel ADHD-fidgety, it’s like— “Are you nervous?”

“No.” She knows I don’t get nervous.

“You seem nervous.”

I kiss her, wanting to distract both of us from whatever this is.

“Oh yeah,” she says a few minutes later. “Why didn’t you answer me today? I texted you a hundred times.”

I groan and cover my face with my hands.

“Not again, Adam. Tell me not again.”

“Okay, so I was in the van. I plugged in my phone, and I forgot I had a glass of water in the cup holder. I mean, I never do that. It’s always bottled!”

“So you dropped it in the water.”

“My mom said she’s done. She’s not replacing this one.”

“Can you blame her?” She laughs. “This is what, the tenth phone this year?”

“Fourth,” I correct.

“Try rice.”

“What?”

“Stick your phone in a bowl of rice. It’s supposed to absorb the moisture.” She kisses my chest and lays her head back down. “You memorized my number, right?” She keeps insisting it’s vital since I lose and break so many phones, but I suspect she really just thinks it romantic—me knowing her number by heart.

“Yeah.”

She kisses me again and for a few minutes neither of us talks. Then she asks, “You still haven’t heard from Julian?”

“No. It’s so weird. It’s been over a week, and nothing.”

“He called you before he left, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Maybe he just got busy. Moving and everything.”

“Maybe.” But I don’t think so. I have this persistent bad feeling, like a throbbing toothache you can’t get rid of. “I’m going to his house tomorrow. I’ll get his aunt’s number.”

Emerald sits up and looks at me. “Do you think his uncle will give it to you?”