I sat in the nursery.
"No to this." He pointed at the dark room and untouched food. "Pack a bag."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Then I'll pack it."
"Chris, leave."
"You haven't opened a curtain in three weeks."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"That's not your business."
"No, Trent. But you are."
"I didn't ask to be saved," I said.
"Good," he said. "I'm not asking permission."
I hated him for that.
"That's not your business."
I still got into the truck.
He drove us three states away to a quiet beach. By sunset, I wanted to go home to the yellow room that hurt me.
"I'm done," I said.
I had already turned toward the parking lot when I heard it.
A cry.
Small. Thin. Real.
I wanted to go home to the yellow room.
Then another.
Chris straightened. "Did you hear that?"
I was already moving.
The sound came from the beach changing cubicles. I pulled back one curtain. It was empty. Then I opened the next.
