I’m almost naked and about three hours deep into this build when Mom knocks at my door. She tells me I can’t spend all day in my room. I tell her that I can and I am as I screw this nail onto this rotating platform. (Connor clued me onto this bit of genius—building on a rotation is the most efficient way of doing things; it saves energy spent maneuvering. Great, since my most recent tattoo is infected and bleeding into the wrap that bound it to my chest.) “You should at least come down for dinner,” she says, “We’re having Constance Schnedecker over.” Fuck that cunt. Her voice is so oily we could bring our troops home, finally give up the bullshit in Iraq. She also loves my sister. Olivia, who is so busy pretending to be pure she forgets to act the part. I throw down the screwdriver and sit down on my mattress. I tell Mom to go on without me—that riles her up enough that she shoves into my door and barges inside. As I scramble to rescue the first few hours of my build from her vengeful feet by shoving the thing onto my pillow I hear pieces of my skin tearing around the transformer permanently seared into my abs.

         For the thirtieth time that week, Mom whines about my lack of furniture. The woman can’t help it—furniture is the first thing she notices when walking into a room. And I have none. “I don’t know why you won’t let us get you a bed.” I sleep on an ancient futon mattress I dragged upstairs from the garage. I point at my mattress and tell her that it is a bed. A frame and a bed are two different things. Besides, sleeping on the floor is healthier. Most of the world does it. Then Mom says something that makes me cringe, something I should have expected, that sums up her worldview so comprehensively it takes everything I can not to vomit the way I did in the days and weeks before they forced me into rehab.