Chapter 5

I moved toward the center of the building, away from the vents, and spread out my extra-large Miley Cyrus Wreckingballblanket—I’d been caller number eight into my local radio station. I removed some snacks—high in fat, higher in remorse—plus a large bottle of Coke—high in gin, though not an ounce of remorse. My Kindle was removed, flip-flops unflipped, and music already cranked as I positioned the backpack like a pillow and sprawled out atop Miley.

“Ah,” I said with a heavy exhale, my skin already glistening with sweat, toes wriggling as a warmish breeze wafted over them. “Thank you Eddie’s School for Locksmiths.” Eddie was in prison for breaking and entering, by the way. It didn’t say much for my education.