The ragged mattress I was lying on hadn’t been replaced in the two years that had passed since the death of my father and sister in drunken car crash. Most everything else had been. Everything that belonged to my father or sister had been sold, the remainder of our old house gradually ransacked as monthly bills came due. Last to go was the house itself. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms was more space than what would be needed for a single mother and her daughter, but the sale came out of desperation, not practicality. Mother purchased the mobile home about a year ago, and we’ve lived in a handful of trailer parks since then, each seedier than the last.
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