Page 15 - My FlipBook

T R A I L O F C R U M B S

by Dictator Patty, Ash was a fast-food worker or possibly
homeless. What he got he was expected to accept without
complaint. Roger was, at best, a spineless government
advisor. Greta was probably a small-business owner, strug-
gling to get by, whining about taxes.
She could still hear them with the door closed. How did
Ash do that? Patty got mad at Ash. Roger got mad at Ash,
and Ash got Patty mad at Roger and walked away without

a scratch.
Greta picked up her phone and ran her thumb over the
screen with a crack in one corner, wanting to text someone.
Rachel? No. Definitely not. It annoyed her that the impulse
still lingered. She and Ash shared the phone, but Ash had
basically given it to her. “I don’t have anyone to call,” he’d said.
Greta always saw him alone at school, if she saw him at all.

When she invited him to hang out with her, he just shook his
head and disappeared. For twins in the same grade, they rarely
crossed paths. Ash had a way of doing that—disappearing into
shadows, corners, storage closets. She envied that about him.
When Roger and Patty went quiet, Greta eased the door
open a crack. She could see their heads still bent together at
the table. The last thing Greta wanted was to be called back to
finish the toilet-paper conversation. Every time Patty opened
her mouth, Greta felt more misery heaped on the pile.

It was the last thing she needed. She took a soft step into the
hallway, toward the open bathroom door. Then froze.
“…can’t just leave…” Roger whispered.
“Not forever. Of course not.”

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