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I haven't left the house in 23 days except to take out the trash. Which I have to debate with Dad before he agrees to let me do it. He watches me from the window when I do. I did it twice. Those were the only times I had gotten fresh air and saw what outside looked like ever since the money was left in the mailbox.
I have just twelve dollars in my own bank account. I can't work. I can't leave and runaway to somewhere else. It sucks big time. Fucking hell. The days are moving like snails. Even slower.
Now there is just seven days left. Seven.
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Mom wakes me up very early on Day 30. On purpose. Must be the same time she found it.
We all stand in the kitchen. Same table. Same mailer, now taken out of the laundry hamper. Dust on it from towel lint.
Dad has a piece of paper. He's been writing to keep track to make it feel less crazy:
_Day 1 - 30. No one came.*
He looks at it for a long time.
