1

“Are you drunk, Jeffrey?” Rebecca’s voice wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the stale air of the cramped apartment like a shard of broken glass dropped on a tile floor. Sharp. Accusatory. The kind of tone honed over countless, weary battles, designed to leave little invisible blisters on the soul.

He didn’t answer, didn’t even twitch. Just kept staring at the television screen where one of those endless, vapid reality shows flickered and pulsed, painting his slack face in shifting, garish washes of electric blue and lurid pink. The ghastly light hollowed out his features, making him look like something pale and bloated fished out of a murky river. Another empty bottle of Miller High Life—The Champagne of Beers, wasn’t that a fucking bitter joke?—lay on its side on the stained, beige rug, a fallen soldier joining the sad, sticky, little army already bivouacked around the thrift-store couch legs. They’d been piling up for weeks. Or had it been months now? Time had gone slick and blurry lately, like trying to hold onto a wet bar of soap in the shower; the days just bled together into one long, gray, beer-soaked smear.

“Jeffrey. Look at me when I’m talking to you, goddammit.” Her voice hitched up a notch, frustration bubbling hot and acidic in her throat, tasting like bile. The scent of stale beer and unwashed laundry seemed to thicken the air.

He finally dragged his head around, the movement slow, reluctant, weighted down by alcohol and apathy. His eyes were roadmaps of burst capillaries crisscrossing yellowed whites. His face, once handsome in a way that still occasionally ambushed her with regret, was a battlefield where shame and sullen defiance fought a bloody, pointless war in the flickering TV light. “‘Wha’?” he mumbled, the word thick, clumsy, struggling past numb lips. “I’m jus’… relaxin’.”

“Relaxing?” Rebecca’s laugh was short, sharp and devoid of humor. It was the sound of something breaking. She waved a hand, a gesture encompassing the entire landscape of their shared failure: the accumulating bottles, the overflowing ashtray, the general miasma of neglect that had become the air they breathed. “This is relaxing? Jeffrey, you haven’t even pretended to look for a job in three weeks! The rent 26check is going to bounce higher than a goddamn basketball next week, and you’re relaxing?”

“I’m trying!” he snapped back, a surprising flare of heat in his voice, the wounded animal finally biting back. His eyes flashed, momentarily clearer. “It’s not easy, y’know? Christ, nobody’s hiring! It’s like the goddamn Great Depression! Tariff wars are ruining the economy! What d’you want me to do, huh? Curl up in a ball and cry?”

“I want you to do something!” she shot back, her own voice trembling now, not with fear, but with a sheer, bone-deep exhaustion that felt heavier than lead. “Anything! I’m out there busting my ass, twelve-hour days including the soul-sucking commute, taking shit from that prick Pfeiffer—literal shit, sometimes, Jeffrey, I manage plumbers, remember? Actual human waste!—while you sit here… marinating. Marinating in cheap beer and self-pity!”

“Oh, here we go,” he sneered, turning his face back towards the hypnotic glow of the TV, deliberately shutting her out, donning his familiar mask of martyrdom. That exaggerated bitterness, honed to perfection, always set her teeth on edge. Always my fault, the familiar litany probably starting up in his head, worn smooth as a river stone from overuse. Always finding fault. Just like her mother. Doesn’t matter what I do, does it? Maybe she likes me like this. Down. He clenched his jaw, swallowing anger like vomit. “My fault now, is it? Everything lands on old Jeffrey’s shoulders? Maybe if you weren’t such a goddamn critic all the time! Maybe if you showed one single ounce of actual faith in me, just once…”

“Faith?” she repeated, the word incredulous, almost mocking, tasting like rust in her mouth. “I ran on faith for years, Jeffrey! Faith and fumes! I believed all your bullshit promises, all your big-ticket dreams that always, always ended up costing me everything. And look where that faith got us! This shithole apartment! Bills piling up like snow drifts in hell! While you achieve new levels of couch-potato nirvana!”

The fight flared then, hot and nasty and depressingly familiar, the same old script dusted off for another command performance. Words like shivs, honed sharp by intimacy, aimed low, meant to draw blood. They knew each other’s weak spots too well, the tender places under the scar tissue where the wounds never quite healed. But just as it reached its usual, screaming crescendo, the air suddenly went out of it. Like a punctured lung. Leaving them both gasping in the sudden, heavy silence, the only sound is the mindless chatter from the television.

Jeffrey slumped back against the lumpy couch cushions, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had flared, leaving behind the usual toxic residue: weary resignation and a dull, throbbing headache behind the eyes. He stared blankly at the flickering screen, already retreating back into the comforting, numbing fog of his alcoholic mist.

Rebecca turned away, shoulders slumped in defeat, the angry energy replaced by a crushing weight. Tears finally spilled over, hot and useless, tracking paths through her makeup as they streamed down her cheeks. What’s the goddamn point? The thought echoed in the hollow space inside her chest. Round and round we go, where we stop, nobody knows… except we always stop right back here. Trapped. Stuck fast in this miserable, grinding feedback loop of blame and booze and bitterness. And standing there in the flickering gloom, breathing in the smell of decay, she didn’t have the first fucking clue how to get out.

2

The El train screamed and groaned along the elevated tracks, a tired, arthritic metal dragon breathing exhaust fumes, smelling perpetually of stale coffee, collective body odor, faint urine from the corner near the doors, and something else… something vaguely metallic and organic, like old blood on damp concrete. Rebecca sat jammed into a corner seat, forehead pressed against the vibrating, grime-smeared window that offered a distorted view of the world outside. Chicago blurred past, a smear of bleeding neon signs, flickering street lights like dying fireflies, and soot-stained brick buildings leaning wearily against each other. Each lamp they rattled past painted her face for a fleeting second in harsh, jaundiced orange light, highlighting the exhaustion etched deep around her eyes and mouth. Her fingernails, ragged, polish chipped down to nothing weeks ago, tapped out a nervous, jittery rhythm on the cracked plastic armrest—tap tap tap-tap-tap tap tap—a frantic little drumbeat against the train’s monotonous, grinding drone. Anxious, jumpy electricity, like static before a lightning strike, fizzed unpleasantly under her skin.

She let out a long breath, fogging the dirty glass. Last night. The argument replayed itself behind her eyelids, sharp and ugly and utterly pointless. Same script, different night, same crushing finale of silence and despair. She shifted uncomfortably, the sticky vinyl seat grabbing at the back of her thighs through her thin leggings. Her feet throbbed inside her sensible-but-still-pinching black work shoes, a dull ache radiating up her calves. This wasn’t exactly the high-powered, intellectually stimulating career she’d dreamed about back when she was tearing through novels in college, fueled by caffeine and ambition, thinking she’d end up in marketing, maybe, or finance. Something with… well, something that involved less literal shit. Something more than coordinating emergency sewage removal for half the Midwest.

Because that’s what “Account Manager” really meant at Midwest Sanitation Solutions, despite the vaguely impressive title. Sounds fancy, right? Like something you’d wear a power suit for, clicking confidently down polished hallways. Bullshit. She was a glorified dispatcher for plumbing disasters, the calm voice on the phone when someone else’s world turned brown. When some gas station john out in Bumblefuck, Illinois, backed up like Mount Vesuvius erupting effluent, or the single restroom at a roadside Burger King transformed into something out of a Cronenberg body-horror movie, some poor, panicked schmuck called their 800-number. And Rebecca Cohen got the distinct privilege of trying to cajole, bribe, or threaten some hungover, resentful plumber into driving three hours out into the sticks at midnight to deal with literal human waste. Fun times. Peak career achievement.

Today’s fresh hell had been courtesy of a Mr. Henderson out of Peoria, a plumber whose voice sounded like rocks rattling inside a cement mixer and whose general attitude made granite seem warm and yielding. “It’s Code Red, Mr. Henderson, the client’s threatening lawsuits, health code violations,” she’d pleaded, trying desperately to keep the rising tide of panic out of her voice. “You’re the only technician available within fifty miles…” Henderson had just grunted, a sound that might have been “tough luck,” or possibly just him clearing phlegm, and then slammed the phone down in her ear. Leaving Rebecca to absorb the subsequent hysterical screaming from some Quick-E-Mart manager who now presided over a biohazard zone that used to be his customer restroom.

This wasn’t the life she’d pictured. God, no. Growing up devouring books, imagining futures filled with clever campaigns or shrewd investments, she’d seen herself doing something… smarter. Something that used her brain, her words. Something that didn’t involve calculating the travel time for septic tank pumpers or knowing the precise difference between residential and commercial grade drain snakes. Instead, here she was, wrangling guys named Sal or Gus or Henderson who smelled faintly of stale beer and looked at her like she was something unpleasant they’d scraped off their boot heel. Her primary skill had become convincing reluctant men to wade into other people’s filth. The irony wasn’t lost on her; it just wasn’t funny anymore.

And then there was Dennis Pfeiffer. Her boss. Oh, sweet joy. Pfeiffer wasn’t just a boss; he was a walking, talking, greasy embodiment of toxic masculinity. A guy whose primary management technique seemed to involve belittling the women in the office while exchanging knuckle-bumps with the guys for successfully operating the coffee machine. Casual misogyny dripped off his bald, slightly sweaty head like grease off bad pizza.

“Well now, ‘Beccaaaa…” He always did that, dragged her name out like he was pulling sticky, dirty taffy, like it was some kind of hilarious inside joke only he understood. Honestly, the sound of it made her want to scrub her skin raw with disinfectant. He’d leaned against her cubicle wall earlier that afternoon, radiating faint odors of cheap cologne and something else—stale cigarettes maybe?—and performed his slow, deliberate visual inspection. Top to bottom. She was wearing black yoga pants and an old Northwestern sweatshirt, comfort clothes chosen specifically for a job that mostly involved yelling into a phone and feeling defeated. Practical. Not provocative. “Goin’ for the Athleisure look today, are we?” he’d smirked, eyes lingering a little too long on her chest. “Or just given up trying to impress anyone around here?” The look felt like oily spiders crawling on her skin. He leaned closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Don’t forget that lipstick tomorrow, Becca. Brightens up the place. Gotta give the boys something nice to look at, right? Keeps morale up.” He actually winked. The absolute prick.

The words landed like tiny poisoned darts. Familiar. Stinging. Predictable. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard, and tasted the metallic tang of blood. Wanted to tell him to go fuck himself sideways with a rusty pipe wrench she could probably procure from Henderson. Swallow it down. Bury it deep. She added the fresh wave of impotent rage to the compost heap festering inside her chest. Smiled weakly, a rictus grin that felt like cracking plaster. Nodded. Yes, Mr. Pfeiffer. Whatever you say, Mr. Pfeiffer. Just please stop breathing my air.

Later, when she’d had the misfortune of informing him that the Gary contractor had flaked again, leaving some poor factory literally knee-deep in its own outflow, Pfeiffer hadn’t yelled. He’d actually laughed. A barking, humorless sound that scraped against her nerves.

“Come on, ‘Beccaaaa,” he’d chortled, leaning back in his faux-leather throne, fingers steepled under his chin, looking unbearably smug. “Use your… assets. Isn’t that what you gals do best? Flutter those lashes a little. Hike up that skirt—oh wait, yoga pants today, right? Shame. Maybe promise ol’ Earl a little something extra for his trouble? Gotta use what God gave ya, right?”

Her jaw locked so tight she heard her teeth creak. Her hands, hidden beneath the desk, balled into fists so tight her nails dug into her palms. Her face remained carefully, painfully blank. Stay calm. Don’t react. Inside her, Mount Saint Helens was rumbling, getting ready to blow sky-high. But she choked it back. Down, down, down. Bury it deep with all the other humiliations. Don’t let him see the fury. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Now, on the train—this goddamn train, smelling like despair and industrial-strength disinfectant—she squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the heels of her hands against her throbbing temples. Tried to block out the city’s relentless scream: distant sirens wailing like banshees, impatient horns blaring, the train wheels shrieking in protest as they scraped around a curve. The car swayed violently, groaning metal on metal, like something ancient and in profound pain. It sounded exactly like she felt inside. Three rows up, some asshole in a suit yelled into his cell phone about quarterly reports, oblivious or indifferent to the captive audience forced to listen to his self-important monologue. Across the aisle, a nervous foot tapped out a frantic rhythm against the floor—tap-tap-tap-tap—a maddening little beat drilling directly into her skull. Just get me home. The thought was a desperate prayer. Just let me get home. But home… Christ. The word itself tasted like ash and stale beer.

Home was the apartment near 83rd. A crumbling two-bedroom walk-up in a part of the South Side that looked like the city had mostly forgotten it existed, letting it slowly rot and decay from the inside out like a neglected tooth. An hour and fifteen minutes on this rolling sardine can each way, morning and night. From the gleaming, indifferent towers downtown to… this. It felt like traveling back in time, or maybe just sideways into a shittier, grayer dimension.

Home meant thin walls, hearing Mrs. Delgado next door hacking up phlegm all night, a wet, relentless, rattling rhythm that burrowed into Rebecca’s dreams. It meant hearing the couple downstairs screaming obscenities at each other, their fights often punctuated by the satisfyingly loud smash of breaking glass. Domestic bliss, South Side style. Home meant the heating only reliably worked in the living room, leaving the bedroom and bathroom feeling like meat lockers six months of the year, forcing her to sleep in layers of clothing. Meant the constant, maddening drip… drip… drip from the bathroom faucet, a tiny water torture she couldn’t fix herself and Jeffrey perpetually promised to look at “later.” It also meant the pipes banged and groaned like trapped ghosts in the walls whenever the temperature dropped below freezing. And the scratching. Always late at night, when the building finally fell quiet. That faint, furtive skitter-skitter-scratch from somewhere deep inside the walls. Rats? Or just the ancient building settling further into its long, slow decay? Maybe both, she thought darkly. Probably both.

Jeffrey kept promising things would change. He always promised. “We’ll move, Bec. Soon as I land something solid. Find something better. Nicer neighborhood. You deserve better.” Always said with that hopeful, earnest look that used to melt her heart and now just made her feel profoundly tired. She’d stopped buying it months ago. Stopped believing in fairy tales starring Jeffrey as the flawed, but ultimately triumphant hero. She saw the way the genuine hope was leaking out of him, day by day, replaced by cheap booze and simmering bitterness. “Better” was somewhere over the rainbow, and they were fresh out of yellow bricks and ruby slippers.

The train shrieked into the 83rd Street station, brakes grabbing with a shudder, and the doors hissed open like a dying breath. She stood up stiffly, grabbing a greasy pole for balance as the car lurched, and stepped out onto the cracked concrete platform. The air hit her—a familiar cocktail of car exhaust, stale grease from the corner chicken joint, and that faint, ever-present smell of something smoldering, like maybe the whole damn neighborhood was slowly, inevitably burning down around them. The guy running the newsstand by the stairs, his face like crumpled brown paper, was pulling down his heavy metal security shutter. Clang-bang! The sound echoed, sharp and final. Like a coffin lid closing. Her fingers automatically found the reassuring shape of the pepper spray in her coat pocket. Habit. Like locking the door three times. You didn’t walk these streets after dark without being ready for trouble.

Fast walk home, keys clutched tight in her fist, knuckles white. Heels clicking too loud on the cracked, uneven sidewalk. Past the liquor store, its neon sign buzzing like an angry, trapped insect, the guy behind the bulletproof glass watching her pass, eyes lingering in a way that made her skin crawl. Don’t look back. Keep walking. Past the alley that always smelled piss-sour, no matter the weather, a dark maw waiting to swallow someone. Her heart did a nervous little tap dance against her ribs. Every deep shadow looked like it was waiting to reach out and grab her. Her building finally loomed up ahead, squatting under a flickering streetlight like a sullen beast, its bricks stained dark with decades of city grime. It looked like it was brooding. The lobby smelled, as always, like stale Marlboros, despair, and Lysol failing to cover up something worse.

Their apartment door, number 3B, looked as tired and beat-up as she felt. Scuffed, dented near the lock, paint peeling away in sad strips. Key in the lock. She paused, holding her breath. Listened. Silence. Just silence from within. She pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air hit her immediately—stale beer, cold old pizza crusts, and that sour-mash undertone of cheap whiskey that had become Jeffrey’s signature cologne. The living room was a disaster zone. Pizza boxes tilted like the Leaning Tower of Pisa on the scarred coffee table. A platoon of empty beer bottles stood guard on the floor. Maybe he finally choked on his own vomit, the thought whispered, ugly and mean, surfacing from some dark, exhausted corner of her mind. She pushed it away. Mostly. The TV flickered, sound off, washing the mess in its cold, dead, bluish light. Jeffrey was out cold on the couch, mouth slack and open, one arm dangling, fingers brushing the dirty rug. His chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths. A soft snore escaped him, a little wet rattle. That sound used to be comforting, a sign he was home, safe beside her. Tonight it just sounded… lonely. And pathetic. Highlighting her own loneliness most of all.

Rebecca let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, the tension releasing slightly from her shoulders. Rubbing her temples, she felt the familiar throb of a headache starting behind her eyes. She could shake him awake. Start “Round Two” of last night’s argument. Did you do anything today, you useless sack of shit? Anything at all besides drinking and watching TV? But what was the point? Same words, same slurred denials, same empty promises, same crushing hangover tomorrow morning for both of them. Fuck it. She reached over and clicked off the TV with a decisive snap. Darkness swallowed the room. It felt appropriate.

She padded into the bathroom, the linoleum cold and slightly sticky under her bare feet. That damned drip… drip… drip from the faucet echoed in the small, tiled space. Goddamn faucet. The mirror above the sink, filmed over with soap scum and toothpaste specks, reflected a face that looked like a stranger’s. Haunted. Eyes sunk deep in bruised-looking hollows. Tomorrow. The word landed heavy in her gut. Same shit, different day. The train. The office. Pfeiffer’s bullshit smile and wandering eyes. Henderson’s grunts. Sewage backups, literal and metaphorical. Then the train ride back. To this. To him. She killed the light. Slipped into the cold, empty bed in the adjacent room, the one that used to be their shared bedroom before his snoring and late-night drinking drove her out. Didn’t even bother taking off her sweatshirt. Just pulled the thin, worn blanket up to her chin and waited for sleep, or maybe just oblivion, to come take her away from it all.

Something pulled her out of sleep way before the alarm clock could shriek its usual 6 AM insult. Not the typical city alarm system—no sirens wailing, no garbage trucks doing the metallic Lambada down the alley below, no car alarms yodeling the mournful song of their people. Not the rhythmic stomping from the apartment upstairs. Not even Jeffrey’s usual symphony of snores and congested breathing from the living room couch. It was… a smell? Yeah, Christ, a smell. Rich. Dark. Coffee. Good coffee, not the instant sludge she usually choked down while standing over the sink. And… bacon? Definitely bacon, sizzling invitingly. Mingling with something sweet, like pancakes maybe? Maple syrup?

She blinked at the grey, pre-dawn light slanting through the cheap plastic blinds. Her brain, sluggish and sleep-deprived, struggled to catch up. Where am I? Did I die and go to IHOP? Jeffrey hadn’t cooked anything more complicated than microwave popcorn or maybe scrambled eggs (badly) in… well, years. Most mornings, he was still unconscious when she tiptoed out the door, or maybe just pretending to be, burrowed deep under his blanket fortress on the couch. This smell… it didn’t compute. It was utterly alien in this apartment. But it wasn’t fading. It was getting stronger. Insistent. Almost aggressively cheerful. Frowning, a knot of pure, unadulterated suspicion tightening low in her gut, she swung her legs out of bed, the cold floorboards shocking her bare feet fully awake, then padded cautiously out towards the kitchen.

Rebecca stopped dead in the doorway, staring. Jeffrey was at the stove, wearing that stupid faded Cubs apron she thought she’d thrown out during her last rage-cleaning session. He was flipping pancakes with a flourish, like it was the most normal goddamn thing in the world. The kitchen table—that wobbly piece of junk inherited from his Aunt Mildred, perpetually covered in junk mail and old newspapers—was actually set. Two mismatched plates, yes, but plates nonetheless. A sticky bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup stood sentinel. Two mugs steamed fragrantly with dark coffee. Rebecca just stared, her mind struggling to reconcile the domestic scene with the man she’d left passed out amidst a sea of beer bottles just hours before. “Okay,” she said finally, her voice rough with sleep and thick with disbelief. “Who are you, and where’s the body?”

He turned, spatula held aloft like a scepter, and gave her this… smile. Bright. Wide. A little too wide? Maybe. Edged with something brittle, like cheap glass about to shatter. “Ha! Morning, sunshine!” His voice was aggressively, unnervingly cheerful. Way too cheerful for 6 AM on a Tuesday. “Seat yourself! Flapjacks are hot! Made ’em just how you like ’em, with a little bit of vanilla in the batter.” He actually winked. “Consider this… Exhibit A. My grand apology for last night. Apology for… well, for being a complete shithead lately. Things are changing, Becs! You’re lookin’ at Jeffrey 2.0! New and improved!”

She hesitated, every nerve ending screaming TRAP. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. But the coffee smelled so damn good. And she was starving. She slid cautiously into a chair, eyeing him warily. The pancakes looked perfect, like something off a goddamn menu. Golden brown, fluffy, with a little dusting of powdered sugar. The coffee in her mug was dark, swirling with the caramel creamer she favored. Just how she liked it. How the hell did he remember that? The tiny, specific detail, meant perhaps as a peace offering, instead sent a cold little centipede of unease crawling up her spine. She took a tentative bite of a pancake. Chewed slowly, deliberately. Watched him practically vibrating with energy as he buzzed around the small kitchen, cleaning nonexistent spots on the counter. “Alright, Jeffrey,” she said, putting her fork down carefully. “Spit it out. What’s really going on? What did you do?”

He wiped his hands nervously on the stained apron—definitely nervously—and grabbed his beat-up laptop from the counter where it perpetually charged next to the toaster. He plunked it down on the table in front of her, spun it around to face her. His face was flushed, his eyes glowing with an almost feverish excitement that didn’t look entirely healthy. “Okay, Becs,” he started, his voice tight, trying desperately to sound casual but failing miserably. “Just… hear me out on this, okay? Don’t freak out immediately. Keep an open mind. That’s all I ask. Promise me?”

She looked down, her stomach twisting into a cold knot. The screen showed a webpage. Some cut-rate, sketchy-looking real estate listing site she’d never heard of. The picture displayed looked like it was taken with a potato during a thunderstorm. A grainy, poorly lit image of a building… no, more like a collection of sad, leaning shacks huddled together under some very tall, very dark, menacing-looking trees. It looked like something Leatherface might run as a side hustle when he wasn’t busy with his main hobby. A cold fist squeezed the air from her lungs.

“What… What in God’s name is this, Jeffrey?” Her voice came out a choked whisper.

His grin stretched wider, bordering on manic now. He didn’t seem to notice the way the picture seemed to suck all the warmth and hope out of the room, casting a pall even over the smell of pancakes. “That, my dear Rebecca,” he announced, puffing up his chest slightly like a proud pigeon, “is our future! Our escape hatch! Our Big Chance!”

She just stared at him, mouth slightly open, waiting for the punchline. There had to be a punchline. Our future looks like a place where banjo music plays right before the screaming starts. This wasn’t a fresh start; this was the bottom of the barrel, scraped clean and possibly haunted. And Jeffrey, dear God, Jeffrey was trying to sell it to her like a goddamn time-share in paradise.

He leaned closer across the table, eyes blazing with that terrifying, born-again optimism she knew and dreaded. “Think about it, Becs! Location, location, location! It’s way the hell up in the U.P.! Michigan’s Upper Peninsula! Middle of nowhere! Surrounded by forests—Ottawa National Forest, Hiawatha National Forest, state parks galore! People pay big bucks to get away from it all, escape the city! We tap into that! Hunters, fishermen in the summer, snowmobilers in the winter, leaf-peepers in the fall! We got ’em all! And the fall colors up there? Supposed to be insane! Plus, the Northern Lights! No light pollution! Think of the Instagram potential! #YooperLife! #RusticRetreat! Stargazers! Photographers! We market it right—’Your Authentic Wilderness Retreat’—we’ll be booked solid!” He beamed, radiating frantic energy, clearly waiting for applause or at least stunned admiration.

Rebecca folded her arms slowly across her chest. Felt the cold dread solidifying in her gut, heavy as lead. “And where, exactly, Jeffrey, were we planning on getting the money for this… authentic rustic retreat? Did you check under the couch cushions? Find a winning lottery ticket in the gutter? Because last I looked, we were about one bounced rent check away from living in a cardboard box under Lower Wacker Drive.”

His grin flickered. Just for a second, but she saw it. That tiny hesitation confirmed everything she feared. He blew out a breath, squared his shoulders like he was bracing for impact, trying to recapture the triumphant tone. “That,” he said, trying to sound casual, maybe even a little smug, “is the kicker. The best part. I already put in an offer.”

Her fork, which she hadn’t realized she’d picked up again, hit the plate with a loud clatter. Dropped right out of her numb fingers. “You what? Jeffrey, with what money?”

He clapped his hands together, a sharp, jarring sound in the small kitchen, looking back at the sad little picture on the laptop screen like it was Mecca itself. “Found this online lender! One of those Rocket deals, you know? Super easy! Minimum hassle, maximum speed! Sent ’em my info – well, our info, mostly – and guess what?” He paused for dramatic effect she absolutely did not appreciate, leaning forward again. “The seller accepted! First offer! Boom! Just like that! We own it, Becs! We’re motel owners!”

She stared at him. Just stared. The buzzing in her ears grew louder, drowning out the sizzle of the last pancake forgotten on the stove. “What do you know about fixing up a motel, Jeffrey? What do you know about running one? You get overwhelmed changing a lightbulb!”

“Hey, YouTube, baby!” he countered immediately, already defensive, the forced good cheer vanishing like morning mist burned off by the sun. He quickly minimized the depressing listing, typed “motel renovation how-to” into the search bar with frantic energy. Waved a hand vaguely at the screen now filled with chirpy DIY videos hosted by impossibly clean people in brand-new overalls. “It’s all out there! You can learn anything! Plumbing! Electrical! Drywall! It’s not rocket science!”

“You had me call a plumber last month because the toilet was clogged with your hair,” she said flatly, the words like small, hard stones. “You spent the entire weekend before that on the couch nursing a twelve-pack because you got laid off from that telemarketing gig. Again. You can’t fix shit, Jeffrey, literal or metaphorical.” She regretted the words once they were out. Saw the flicker of genuine pain cross his face before the defensive shutters slammed down again.

“Yeah, okay, maybe you’re right,” he conceded suddenly, shoulders slumping. The abrupt deflation was almost whiplash-inducing. He looked down at his hands. “I know I’ve been… a shitty husband lately. A shitty person. Hitting the bottle too much, feeling sorry for myself. Wallowing. It’s no way to live. I know that.”

“And buying a derelict motel in the middle of the woods fixes all that?” she asked, disbelief warring with a weary, reluctant kind of pity.

“Yes! Goddammit, yes!” He slammed the laptop shut. Hard. The sharp crack made her jump. “This is it, Becs! This is the thing! The catalyst! The fresh start! You just wait! You’ll see! When this place is humming, making bank, people loving it, you’re gonna feel like such an idiot for doubting me! For doubting us!”

Rebecca gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. Felt like the floor was tilting beneath her chair. Panic, cold and sharp and tasting like metal, clawed its way up her throat. The kitchen walls seemed to be closing in, the smell of bacon and pancakes suddenly nauseating. The distant sounds of the city outside—a siren, a horn—felt like they were coming from another planet, a million miles away. A life she used to live, just yesterday. She opened her mouth, to scream, maybe? To argue? To plead for him to undo whatever madness he’d unleashed? Nothing came out. Just a dry, clicking sound in her throat. He’d done it again. Jeffrey, her husband, the king of impulsive, disastrous decisions, had jumped off the cliff, and this time, without even asking, he’d strapped her to his back and taken her with him.

3

The U-Haul groaned down the highway like some big, wounded, orange-and-white beast, maybe a mastodon hit by a logging truck, bleeding transmission fluid instead of blood onto the asphalt. Each mile devoured felt like another shovelful of dirt landing heavily on the coffin of their old life, the one she hadn’t even realized she might miss until it was irrevocably gone. The stuff in the back—everything they owned, a pathetic testament to fifteen years together, jammed haphazardly into dented boxes marked KITCHEN (Greasy!) or BOOKS (Fragile!), lashed down next to the saggy floral couch and the wobbly bookcase—rattled and thumped with every bump, a constant, jarring reminder of how little it all amounted to in the end. Rebecca sat upright  upright in the passenger seat, arms clamped rigidly across her chest as if holding herself together, staring out the side window with such intensity that maybe she could just melt through the glass and dissipate into the goddamn trees. Anything, anything beat being trapped here, in this rumbling metal box, hurtling towards an unknown and likely unpleasant future.

Outside, the scenery had shifted dramatically, morphing from the familiar urban grit of Chicago, through the flat farmlands of Illinois, and now into… this. Endless, suffocating green. Mile after mile after mile of pine trees standing shoulder to shoulder like silent, disapproving soldiers in dark uniforms, interspersed with stands of skinny birch trees whose white bark looked unnervingly like bone in the flat afternoon light. The road itself was a narrow ribbon of cracked blacktop, scarred and patched, looking like the encroaching woods were actively trying to swallow it whole, roots pushing up through the pavement like broken knuckles. The deeper they drove north, through Wisconsin and crossing into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula—the U.P., Christ, it sounded like something you caught, like a social disease—the smaller and more insignificant the world outside the truck felt. Claustrophobic. Oppressive.

Rebecca shifted again on the seat, trying futilely to unstick her leggings from the cold, cracked vinyl. Her back screamed in protest from sitting still for so many hours. The cab of the U-Haul smelled pungently of old coffee spills, Jeffrey’s cigarettes (he’d definitely started again, hadn’t explicitly told her, but the acrid smell clung to his clothes and hair), and the faint, greasy ghost of the Burger King Whoppers they’d choked down at a rest stop three hours ago.

She caught her reflection in the side window again, a pale ghost superimposed over the rushing trees. Looked like hell warmed over and then left out in the rain. Her hair—once meticulously maintained ash-blonde, her one real vanity—was now a limp, two-toned mess pulled back severely in a stretched-out rubber band. Dark blonde roots showing starkly, ends faded and split. Hadn’t bothered with color in… months? Maybe closer to a year? Who was counting anymore? Her eyes, deep-set and blue, usually her best feature, looked washed out, bruised underneath from chronic lack of sleep and probably too much crying in the shower. Lines she hadn’t noticed before were spider webbing out from the corners now. Worry lines. Stress lines. Thanks, Jeffrey. Her lips were pressed together in that thin, unhappy line that was rapidly becoming her default expression. Skin pale, sallow, lacking its former glow. She used to take pride in herself, the makeup carefully applied, the clothes chosen to project competence and style, feeling… put together. A professional woman holding her own. Now? Oversized college sweatshirt hiding the ten pounds stress had packed onto her frame, leggings with a hole forming in the knee. She felt like she was fading, like an old photograph left out too long in the sun. The spark, the vitality, the oomph, whatever intangible thing it was she used to possess… gone. Snuffed out. Like a cheap candle in a strong, persistent wind. She looked back out at the trees again. Endless. Impenetrable. Silent. Fresh start? The phrase felt like a fucking lie whispered down a deep, dark, empty well. This wasn’t a fresh start. This was retreat. This was surrender.

Jeffrey was tapping his fingers rhythmically on the oversized steering wheel—dum-dum-da-dum—humming something tuneless and vaguely irritating under his breath. That forced, brittle cheerfulness again. Like whistling past a graveyard you just bought property in. Probably thinks it bugs me, she thought wearily. He’s right. It made her teeth itch. It felt so utterly phony. Desperate. A flimsy shield against the crushing reality bearing down on them.

A highway sign swam momentarily out of the misty drizzle that had started spitting against the windshield. Rusted green metal, shot through with buckshot holes. Letters faded, barely legible. WELCOME TO MICHIGAN – PURE MICHIGAN. The sign looked vaguely threatening, like something you’d see right before the chainsaw started revving in a horror movie. There it was. The border. The point of no return. Welcome to Nowhere, population: us and maybe some bears and whatever lives in those woods. She gripped the worn fabric of the seat belt until her knuckles were white marbles beneath the skin.

“Quiet over there,” Jeffrey said after a long silence. His voice was too bright. Trying too hard to sound casual. He didn’t take his eyes off the wet road.

“Thinking,” she muttered, not turning her head.

“About our new empire?” he pushed, that phony salesman grin audible in his voice even if she couldn’t see it. “The burgeoning world of rustic roadside hospitality?”

She blew a sharp breath out through her nose. Hard. Didn’t bother looking at him. “Thinking about how I had a job, a shitty job, yeah, but a job with benefits and a steady paycheck, and now I have… this.” She waved a hand vaguely at the windshield, at the relentless wall of wet green rushing towards them.

Jeffrey actually chuckled. A dry, rattling sound that held no humor. “Come on, Bec. You hated that job. You hated Pfeiffer the Prick. You hated the sewage calls at three AM. You were miserable. You told me so yourself. A hundred times.”

“Yeah,” she conceded, rolling her shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge the knot of tension that felt permanently lodged between her shoulder blades. Felt like concrete setting up back there. “But it was my misery. I knew it. I understood the rules, however shitty they were. This?” She shook her head, finally turning to look at the dense, dark woods sliding past her window. “This is… jumping off a cliff blindfolded without checking if there’s even water at the bottom.”

“So you’d rather drown slowly in shit you know than take a chance on maybe flying?” he countered, his voice taking on that familiar defensive edge.

She finally looked at him then. Really looked at him. The stubble on his jaw was thicker now, flecked with grey she hadn’t noticed before. He looked older than his thirty-something years. Tired. The forced optimism didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those eyes looked… hunted. And scared. “I’d rather not have my parachute packed by someone who bought it sight unseen off Craigslist, Jeffrey,” she snapped, her voice sharp with accumulated fear and resentment. “I’d rather have been asked before we jumped!”

His hands tightened visibly on the steering wheel. She saw the muscle jump in his jaw. Here it comes, she thought, bracing herself. But he kept his voice level, strained with forced calm. “We talked about wanting out, Bec. About needing a change.”

“No, you talked! You got that manic gleam in your eye, that ‘can’t miss opportunity’ bullshit you always pull right before you do something monumentally stupid! Next thing I know, boom, offer accepted, non-refundable deposit paid with God knows what imaginary money, and I’m quitting my soul-crushing, but paying job and packing boxes because you decided! You always decide!”

His jaw worked silently for a moment. “I thought… I thought you’d be happy. Excited, even.”

“Excited?” The laugh that escaped her throat was pure bitterness, sharp enough to cut glass. “Jeffrey, you bought a motel that looks like Norman Bates rejected it as too rundown and possibly possessed! In the absolute middle of nowhere! Sight unseen! Based on three blurry photos and a description probably written by the seller’s drunk cousin! You didn’t even order a goddamn inspection! What the hell were you thinking?”

He flinched. Just a little movement of his shoulders, but she saw it. Doubt. A tiny crack appeared in the plaster facade of his confidence. “It’s got potential,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Good bones.”

“It’s probably got bodies buried in the crawlspace!”

Silence descended again. Heavy. Awful. Filled only by the hypnotic whump-whump-whump of the wipers struggling to clear the increasing drizzle and the monotonous drone of the U-Haul’s straining engine.

“You… you really think it’s that bad?” His voice was small now. Vulnerable. Stripped of the earlier bravado. She hated it when he sounded like that. It always somehow made her feel like a bitch, the unreasonable one crushing his fragile dreams.

She sighed, rubbing her temples again. The headache was pulsing steadily behind her eyes now. “I don’t know what I think, Jeffrey. I haven’t even seen it yet, remember? I just… I’m not built like you. I don’t leap. I look first. I plan. I worry. You… you just jump. And most of the time, historically speaking, I’m the one left frantically trying to stitch together some kind of landing pad out of thin air before we hit bottom.”

He nodded slowly, eyes glued to the wet road. His face was a miserable mask of guilt trying desperately to pretend it was quiet resolve. “Yeah. Okay. I get it.”

Silence again. Longer this time. She watched the dense, dark woods slide past, an endless, unblinking green wall. It felt like the trees were watching them, judging them. She wanted to scream at him, shake him until his teeth rattled, make him see the monumental stupidity, the terrifying risk he’d taken with their lives. But what good would it do now? The U-Haul rumbled inexorably onward.