In her bedroom, she spun in a slow circle, her eyes darting carefully and impatiently over the familiar objects. Nothing was...wrong, but something was off. She couldn’t place her finger on it. It felt like someone had been here, even if they weren’t there now. Skirting the window, she made sure not to turn her back to the doors. This was ridiculous, she felt ridiculous, but fear was a compelling argument. She’d look more ridiculous if she ended up dead. You don’t really think there was someone in the house, she thought. The alarm was on. So what did that leave...?

Shoving the curtains aside, she stood in the same place she’d seen the figure. Something had looked at her from this window; she was certain she’d seen it. “No,” she laughed, turning away. The only thing haunting her was her past decisions. She was more afraid of that than ghosts.

      17

   JUNO

The grass was wet and spongy under Juno’s tennis shoes; she turned her face toward the light drizzle and breathed all that good Washington air into her lungs. The outside was now a special treat to her; if only life could balance out its problems. She saw Joe down the way a little, working his cardboard sign, a bottle of orange juice at his feet.

“Orange juice, Joe?”

Joe looked around until he found the source of the voice. His face lit up when he saw her. “Some motherfucker gave it to me, Juno. You know I want the fizzy shit.” He laughed so hard he slapped his knee. Juno hardly ever saw him without a bottle of soda; Crush, preferably, but any soda would do. She caught a look at his sign and raised her eyebrows. Joe wasn’t the “Please help me out” type. In very bold, block writing he’d jotted three lines of a Johnny Cash song Kregger used to listen to. Juno read them with amusement. He was niche homeless: his signs drew the attention not of the bleeding hearts, but of the edgy music lovers with a soft spot for good lyrics. Joe did pretty well on most days. Joe, who referred to the entire world as “those motherfuckers,” was an eternal optimist. He even called the mutt that followed him around Mother. Juno didn’t see the dog now; it was just Joe trying to get her attention. Juno smiled and walked on, but he called after her. “Hey! Hey, Juno! Where have you been, girl?”

“I’m no more a girl than you are, Joe!”

“That’s right! You’re a motherfucker!” She heard him laughing before she turned the corner, eager to be away. Joe was an insatiable gossip, and she wanted no part of that today. She took the long way to the library, stopping at the corner mart for a hot cup of soup. The guy who worked there on weekdays had always been nice to her. He did a double take, then bopped his head at her as she headed over to the soup counter. She had been gone for a while. It was nice that he noticed. Choosing the minestrone and ladling it into the to-go container, she headed to the register to wait her turn. The soup was two dollars fifty, and she set the money on the counter and asked for a single stamp, fishing the extra change out of her pocket. She had just enough left to use the printer at the library, which was five cents a page. With the stamp tucked away, she drank her soup straight from the paper bowl as she walked. The guy at the register had slid her a pack of Mentos before she could walk away—no charge. She ate half the pack as she sat at the computer terminal in the library, slipping them discreetly between her lips. When she had what she needed and the printer hummed out its last warm sheet, she headed out. Samuel would be home in an hour. He’d take care of the alarm, and Juno would slip in through the kitchen while he did his homework. The problem was Mr. Nevins, who occasionally peeked out of his windows into the alley that Juno had to walk down to reach the back gate. If she took her eyes off the windows, she might not see him, but he would see her, and then he’d call the police. She didn’t cross the street from the park and approach the house from the front; instead, she crossed the street early and took the long way around. Her heart was racing like a Derby horse, and she hadn’t even gotten in the gate yet. What if Sam was making a sandwich in the kitchen and saw his old homeless friend walking through his back gate? Mr. Nevins’s truck wasn’t on the curb. Walking down the alley, making every effort to look like a harmless old woman, Juno kept her eyes on the gate. Samuel had left it open; she wouldn’t have to reach over the top to knock the latch free. She slowed when she neared it and looked around furtively, but there was no movement from Mr. Nevins’s windows. Someone else could see her, she supposed, but chances were they’d think she was the cleaning lady or something. People came and went in the city without the same nosiness you found in the suburbs. Juno had known everyone’s comings and goings when she was a suburban mom. She slipped through the gate and immediately recognized her mistake. A male voice called out to her as soon as she was on the house side.

“Hey! What are you doing?” She turned to see Joe trailing her down the alley, a filthy Mariners hat perched at a cocky angle on his head. He was walking a little loose limbed, his head wobbling around like his brains were too heavy for his neck. Juno knew that wasn’t the case, which meant he’d probably had a recent hit. Joe liked some crack to go with his soda. She slipped back out, pretending she hadn’t heard him, and continued on her way toward the street. Her heart was doing a jackrabbit run in her chest. Why had she called out to him earlier? She looked around for the dog, expecting to see it, but Joe was on his own and by the look on his face, he had an appetite for some trouble.

“Juno! Juno, you motherfucker!” She sped up, turning right down the street toward Greenlake Park. If she crossed the street fast, she could lose him. But when she turned around to see how close he was, she couldn’t see him at all. Juno backtracked, peeking around the corner. Joe was standing in front of the Crouches’ open gate, swaying as he stared in. It was a frightening sight. If Sam came into the kitchen and saw—

“Hey! I’m here, Joe. What do you want?” He didn’t seem to hear her this time; his attention was focused on the house. Dear God, Juno thought. What’s happening in those drug-addled brains of his? Now Juno wished Mr. Nevins were looking out of his window.

“Joe!” she called. “Hey, shithead! Let’s go get a doughnut, you motherfucker, before they’re out.” Joe still didn’t move, his attention for once laser focused. Juno had met Joe at the doughnut shop, which was no more than a one-room fry house that smelled like heaven. The owner was a former addict and sold anyone without a roof over their head doughnuts for twenty-five cents apiece; first come, first served. He was a lot younger than her, so it wasn’t like they were friends, but when you were homeless, you became part of a community you hadn’t exactly asked for. She took a few steps closer to where Joe stood, careful to keep out of his reach. Crack made him unpredictable. “Joe,” she said again. “I’ll buy you a—”

His head swiveled toward Juno so suddenly she jumped back. “What was in there?”

“What?” Suddenly he looked a lot more coherent than she’d initially thought. Maybe he’s not high. Joe took a step toward the gate, extending his hand to push it all the way open.