Chapter 8

“Mike, it’s your mother. Who are you yelling at?”

“Hold on. I just got out of the shower!” he lied as he began frantically searching for a shirt to throw on. He could just imagine her standing out on that rickety staircase getting more aggravated and suspicious by the second.

She knocked again.

“Hey, Ma, I didn’t know you were in the neighborhood,” he said a little breathlessly, opening the door and hoping she couldn’t hear the slur in his voice. “You wanna come in?”

“No, I want to stand out here on this lovely deathtrap of a staircase that idiot left and you’re too busy to fix,” she snapped. “Who were you yelling at?” His mother, a short but formidable woman with dark, wild hair and quick eyes tried looking around him to see if she could see anything unusual behind her son.

“Sorry. I’m a little out of it, I guess.”

Michael looked up at the sky before closing the door, saw a plane and wished he were on it, going somewhere.