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What if he decided he doesn’t want to take care of me anymore?

The sentence lands somewhere deep and immediately hurts more than it should.

He doesn’t owe me that.

He barely knows me.

He already spent eleven years not taking care of me.

Maybe this was enough.

Maybe he decided fulfilling Dad’s promise meant not killing me, and now that he’s accomplished that much, there’s no reason to keep—

No.

He said I was going with him eventually.

He said I would live at his house.

He said—

People say things.

Mom said things too.

Mom promised things all the time.

She promised her boyfriends wouldn’t bother me, promised she would pay me back, promised she was sorry, promised next month would be different.

Words change when people get bored, or when they’re angry, or when they sober up. When they meet somebody they like better.

My breathing starts coming faster, shallow little pulls of air that don’t go anywhere. The blanket smells like laundry soap and Adrien’s smoke, and I hate that I already know it, that I’ve memorized something I might never smell again.

I don’t know Adrien well enough to know whether his promises change too.

Dad trusted him.

Dad trusted him.

Dad trusted him.

I repeat it until the words lose meaning, like counting sheep that don’t do anything.

The pressure in my bladder has become constant now, a hard aching fullness that makes it impossible to think about anything else for more than a few seconds.

I shift toward the edge of the mattress, then stop when the cuff pulls my arm short.

Maybe I can get down somehow.

I look at the distance, hoping, but my wrist is attached too high on the headboard. I’d end up hanging by one arm before my feet reached the floor.

Okay. Getting to the bathroom is impossible. What about a trash can? Except there’s not one in here. Cup? No.

My face burns.

I curl up even tighter, trying desperately to find a position that keeps my bladder from leaking.

Just hold it, I tell myself.