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Silas finally leaves the room, closing the door behind him, and I stare down at the old telephone again. It's yellow, but I don't think it's supposed to be yellow. I think it was white or maybe cream colored at one point, but it's old and dirty, and it's been here for decades, and for at least a couple of those decades, I'm sure this motel allowed smoking inside. The plastic covering the buttons is chipped, and in some places, condensation has formed beneath it. You can't even see the nine or the three anymore.

My lip turns upward. It's off-putting. It's putting me off. On instinct, I try to suck lip rings that aren't there anymore into my mouth.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

I swallow a lump in my throat. It's not regret; the plan is perfect. I'll know exactly where she is forever. It's not guilt, either. I know what guilt is. So why can't I press the numbers?

Maybe it's just that the last time I called the police, it was…

I put the car in park and check my face in the rearview mirror. Another fucking fight. Another fucking black eye before the last one even got the chance to heal. Before my mom died, I would have put on makeup and tried to hide it so I wouldn't have to explain to my parents why my face was black and blue again.

There's no one left to care anymore. And my dad will know why, anyway. It was for Mia. It's the second time this week that it's been for Mia.

I'm not the biggest guy, but I am the meanest, and that's not necessarily a good combination.

Sighing, I get out of the car and head upstairs. Every day of this hell, I'm forced to walk past Noah's old apartment. It was empty for a while, but a middle-aged man lives there alone now. He let the number nine fall off the front door and just wrote it on the front with a sharpie—that's how lazy this guy is. He also leaves his full garbage bags outside of his unit until he feels like taking on the monumental task of walking downstairs and throwing them into the dumpster. One sits there now, and it's ripe as fuck. I'd kick it over if I thought there was any chance in hell the fuckbag would actually pick it up, but it would just become my problem.

I hold my breath as I turn my key in the lock. I open the door, but before I can step inside and close it, the cat runs out.

"Shit!"

I reach for him, but I'm not fast enough to grab him, and before I'm even past that rancid garbage bag, Mittens is down the staircase and darting straight into the woods.

"Fuck," I mutter. What am I supposed to do now? I can't find a cat in the fucking woods, and he's never done this before.

Even the cat doesn't want to be here anymore.

But cats come back, right?

I shake my head, muttering a stream of profanities, and step inside my apartment. My dad sleeps in the recliner with the blinds closed and the lights turned off. Beer bottles line the kitchen counter because, apparently, those can't be thrown out, either, and the sink is overflowing with dishes again.

"Dad," I say, shaking him awake. "You need to get up. I need help with the kitchen."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"With the dishes, Dad," I tell him. "There are flies in there. Has Mia eaten today? You said you were going to call the doctor; I'm guessing you didn't do that."

"Tate, I'm doing the best I can. If you've got a problem with the home I pay for, you can clean it."

"Well, you have to do better! Mia is really sick, Dad. She needs help. I can't do everything."

I already tried to file a police report against the people doing this to her, but she refused to be interviewed, so they said they couldn't help me. I tried to get the videos removed, but the sites said since she wasn't a minor, they weren't going to do anything. I tried calling a psychiatrist, but our shitty insurance doesn't cover it, and when I finally found one who would see her without insurance that didn't have a six month wait, they told me she had to call herself or it had to be a parent or guardian, and they needed a credit card to charge.

I gave him the phone number three fucking days ago. I know his wife died, but she was my mom, too.

He closes his eyes again. Just to piss me off.

I go to the fridge and take out a beer because why the fuck not? Look at him—he doesn't need another one, and what is he going to do about it? I twist off the top and toss it in the garbage can, noticing Mitten's empty food and water bowl when I do.

"Dad, when was the last time you fed the cat?" I ask.

He doesn't answer.

"Dad?"

"She should have been more careful," Dad says. "Maybe this is a good lesson for her."

"I know you're not blaming my fucking sister for what those assholes did to her, right? Because if you have enough energy to have this fucking fight again, you can call the doctor, feed the fucking cat, and do the goddamn dishes."