Shift

16

Deep down, I knew I’d come back to this place; I just didn’t want it to be so soon. The familiar smell of dirty clothes and piled up garbage assaults my nostrils as soon as I step out of my car. Colt’s ride is nowhere in sight, which is comforting. Mom is home alone.

I grab my box of belongings from the trunk and carry it to the back door, knowing it will be unlocked. My mom always leaves the back door open; that’s one of the things that sends Colt into a rage. He’s convinced she’s working with ATF or the FBI to grant access for a raid. I hate to break it to him, but I’m pretty sure toddlers could punch their way through one of the walls and make their way inside if they wanted to. An open back door is the least of his security worries.

The theme music from her favorite soap opera echoes from the shitty TV speakers as I enter, and I can see the top of her head peeking out from the recliner as I walk in.

“Hey, Mom,” I a

“Dusty!” She wiggles her way to a stand, a half-spent cigarette dangling from her fingers, the ash so long I’m not sure how it hasn’t fallen to the floor. She grinds out the butt in a cereal bowl on the small table next to the chair.

Ah, home.

“Do you want some eggs? You must be hungry. Let me make you some eggs.” She stumbles her way into the kitchen, her arms swinging wildly for balance. She knocks over a few stacked pots but somehow manages to catch one of them mid-air before it clanks on the floor. She glances up at me and grins, proud of herself.

“Look at that,” she says, winking.

She’s high. I’m guessing opiates, probably prescription. It’s sad that I can identify the difference.

“I’m just dropping off some stuff for my closet, Ma. You don’t have to make me anything.” It’s three in the afternoon. Not that you can’t eat breakfast whenever, but I don’t think she has a clue what time it is.

I kick a few empty snack cake boxes out of my way as I amble down the narrow hallway and try like hell to keep the visual of my mom passed out on the floor out of my head. I haven’t really had a bedroom for years. There’s a room and there’s a bed in it, but it’s covered with boxes filled with shit my mom thinks is too important to throw away. I think it’s probably where Colt hides money, too. I never touch those boxes. I’m better off not knowing. The closet, though—that I got to keep.

I slide the door open and wedge my foot between a few bins, sliding them apart enough to drop my box to the floor. I pop the top open and hang a few of my old shirts. These aren’t things I wear much. I keep those in my trunk. But I was so freaked out when I left the first time, I just grabbed random things and took off.

The smell of burnt egg drifts into the room, so I close the box and swear under my breath. The last thing I want to do is hang around this place, but if my mom is actually going to make an effort, I may as well indulge her and try to eat them. I’m sure they’re dry as fuck.

I grab the edge of the sliding door and begin to move it when something glaring hits my frame of focus. I let go of the door and reach up, holding my hand a few inches from the bundled brick of cash before convincing myself to go ahead and touch it. A second stack rests below it, both bundles wrapped in Saran Wrap, but the second one is clearly drugs.

Fuck.

The cash is heavy in my palm. I can see enough through the layers of plastic to get that they’re all hundreds. Hundreds of hundreds.

Fuck.

“Dusty? Eggs are ready!”

My heart pounds heavy in my chest, pulse ratcheting up at the sound of my mom’s voice, and I drop the bundle to my feet.

“Coming!” I yell, scrambling to pick up the money. I tug one of my T-shirts free and wipe away my prints, not that I even know if that’s a thing. I just know if it is a thing, I don’t want my prints on this shit. Holding the cash with my shirt for a glove, I slide it back into place and finish closing the door.

My heart thunders against my chest cavity and the rhythm of my pulse drowns out the sound of Mom’s TV when I walk back into the living room. There aren’t any chairs in the kitchen, so I stand at the clear spot on the counter that my mom made by shoving crap out of the way with her arm. She drops the plate of steaming and slightly browned eggs in front of me and I commence shoveling them in my mouth as fast as I can.

“Aww, you were hungry. My sweet boy,” she says.

She’s super sentimental when she’s high on opioids.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say through a full mouth. The eggs are fucking awful, but I power through them, my mind calculating how much cash fits in an eight-inch-by-four-inch brick. Thousands. Fucking thousands!

By the time I finish my plate, my arms and legs buzz with nervous energy. I have to get out of here, make sense of what I just saw. Colt’s always had drugs and cash around the house. Hell, he cooked his own meth a few times. But the things I found in my closet? That’s another level. That’s cartel kinda shit. That’s dealing for real, not passing around baggies of weed and watered down blow at the truck stop.

“Do you want more? I can make more . . .” My mom is already moving toward the carton of eggs still on the counter. I think that’s the only edible thing in this house.

“No, I gotta go. I got a race to get to, but thanks. That was great,” I lie, dumping the plate on top of the dozens of dirty ones piled in the sink. At some point, my mom will clean a few of those. That’s how it works around here, a constant state of washing what you need when you need it . . . sometimes.

“Okay, baby. Momma loves you!” she chants as I race out the door. I cringe at her syrupy banter. I’m not sure what version of her I’d rather have—the angry rage-a-holic in detox, the depressed, doped-up zombie, or this woman who’s manic and full of way too much energy.

I get in my car and roar out of the gravel driveway, backing into the street, racing away from my house as fast as I can. I hit eighty by the time I reach the end of my street and peel around the corner, smoke spilling from the back of my car so heavily it’s almost impossible to see out the back window.

So much money.

My head is dizzy with all of the thoughts ru

Sometimes, I think God has a wicked sense of humor. Now is one of those times as Ha

I rumble to a stop behind her, my fingers still teeming with guilty energy. I actually considered stealing that cash. For more than a few seconds, that thought sat in my head and I could have convinced myself.

She opens her door and swings her legs out but remains sitting so I get out and walk over to kneel in front of her. I grab her hands in mine and hold them on her lap.

“Where you ru