It's midnight and I'm padding across the carpet in the dark, carefully not to make a sound. There was a backpack in Little Bobby's things and I'm going to take it, even though I spent almost three years living hand to mouth. This time I'll do it right. I'll pack warm clothes, and some food, and my money. The collar and leash for Lila, too, just in case. Maybe I've learned to control that dangerous side of me.

I take longer packing than I should. I consider carefully each item I place inside. Do I really need another t-shirt? Should I take a second pair of shoes?

(how will Bobby feel when he wakes up and I'm gone with half the things that remind him of his son?)

In the kitchen I take the basics: bread, a water bottle, a can of peanuts, a package of deli meat, three apples, some granola bars. I want to write a note, but I don't know what I would say. Thanks for the stuff?

Lila watches me with her brown eyes.

"Okay, then, let's go."

As quietly as I can, I open the trailer door and Lila and I leave. We walk into the night, not looking back.