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Ruth had been at the Jet Way since it opened. She’d stopped counting her drinks weeks ago. It hadn’t taken long for her to become known as that easy nurse. The one who’d go home with just about anyone.

She didn’t care what people thought or said. She only cared about erasing everything. And some nights—more nights than not—that meant doing just about anything with just about anyone.

The anyone at present was an airman who’d laid out a chunk of his fresh paycheck on Stoli for Ruth.

She liked to insist on a top-shelf brand.

Making them spend more, making them earn it.

Earn her. He was half leading, half dragging her out to the parking lot.

“Got my own truck,” he was saying. “We’ll get you home nice and safe now. ”

Ruth snorted. “You’re not safe.”

The airman laughed. “No,” he admitted. “I’m not.

But that’s what you like, isn’t it.” He gave her a push and she staggered, started to topple to the pavement.

But he caught her. Gave her a shake. She giggled.

She liked it when they got rough. “Yeah, I thought so,” he said.

She hoped his truck wasn’t too close. She wanted him to push her again.

Let her fall. Skin up her elbows and knees.

Maybe she’d be too heavy to pick up. Maybe he’d have to drag her a little.

And that would hurt even more. Enough to drown out the real hurt.

Someone else tugged at her arm. Someone who called her by name. “Ruth, it’s me.”

“No way,” said Ruth. “Let go.” She’d stopped counting her drinks, but she still had rules. One of them was only one guy at a time. This one was persistent, though. He yanked her arm again.

“Hey, get off,” said the airman.

Maybe they’d fight. That would be fun to watch. “Yeah, get off,” she shouted.

“Ruth! Wait!”

“Jeez, lady. Back off,” said the airman.

He pulled her one way, and the lady pulled her the other.

Lady? The voice was a little high. Ruth didn’t object to the idea.

A lady might remind her, in a good way, of Kimberly.

But she was surprised anyone in Enid would openly propose it.

Especially anyone who knew her name. She blinked, trying to clear her vision.

Her mother’s face loomed before her. Ruth screamed. Her mother screamed back.

“Shut up!” said the airman. “Both of you! Shut up!”

But the lady wasn’t shutting up. She was shrieking, “Let her go! Let her go! Let my daughter go!”

Ruth screamed back, “Mom! Stop!” Headlights swept across the parking lot, temporarily blinding her. A car swung past. Passengers hung out the windows, gawping. The airman gave Ruth a final shake and let her fall.

“Look what you did!” whined Ruth as he bolted for a pickup at the end of the row. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, honey,” said the lady. It was Aunt Vivian. Aunt Vivian who had skipped the funeral. Who hadn’t called even though she knew about Ivy. “Oh, honey,” she repeated as she helped Ruth up from the pavement, “anything but that.”

Ruth woke to the familiar flick-snap of a lighter coming from the direction of her kitchen.

Her head hurt. Her mouth was Saharan. Her entire body felt wrong.

None of this was unexpected—she felt this way most mornings.

The physical wrongness was so familiar, it was easy to overlook.

The new feeling—though Ruth suspected it wasn’t new at all, only showing itself clearly for the first time in a while—was misery.

The drinking and the men had made her feel better for a while. And then they had allowed her to feel nothing, which was almost just as good. But now she just felt miserable and ashamed.

Oh, poor you, she chastised herself.

No one likes a moper.

She closed her eyes and willed her grandmother’s voice away. Why shouldn’t I mope? she thought. Why shouldn’t I say poor me? I’m motherless.

Maybe not, her grandmother replied.

Another flick, the hiss of the cigarette catching, the snap of the lighter closing.

By the time a hint of smoke reached her bedroom, she’d levered herself upright.

She inhaled the comforting aroma of burnt tobacco.

It reminded her of Ivy. The thought of Vivian in her kitchen was also comforting. It meant Ruth wasn’t alone.