Inside, the bass from the party speakers vibrated the tools hanging on the pegboard. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was Mark’s 40th birthday. My son-in-law. The man who had inherited my daughter’s life insurance and her father along with it.
The door from the kitchen swung open, letting out a blast of conditioned air and the shrill laughter of people who equate volume with happiness. Mark stood there, holding a half-empty can of cheap beer. He was wearing a polo shirt that was too tight across his gut and a gold watch that looked heavy on his wrist.
“Hey, old man,” he sneered, his eyes glassy. He tossed the beer can toward the recycling bin near my head. He missed. It clattered against the wall and leaked foam onto the floor. “Keep the noise down out here. My boss is inside. Don’t embarrass me by wandering in looking like a hobo.”
I looked down at my flannel shirt, worn at the elbows, and my faded jeans. I nodded slowly, my eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete.
“Understood,” I rasped. My voice was rusty from disuse.
Mark laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound. “Useless old burden. Lucky I don’t put you in a home. At least there you’d have someone to change your diapers.”
He slammed the door. The lock clicked.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t get up to clean the beer. I just checked my watch—a battered Timex that had stopped ticking in 1991 and started again in 2001. I calculated the perimeter patrol intervals out of habit. Mark thought I was trapped here with him. He didn’t understand that I wasn’t a prisoner; I was a sentry.
