Read by Carrie Cohen
Through the white bars I have a view of the hallway. If I angle my head just so, with my head pressed on the glass, I can see into the end bedroom, a junk room that Sonny uses for storage or for hiding his illegal locobis.
I don’t call out any more, nor ask when I’ll be let out. I don’t argue when he forgets to feed me, or let me out to do my business. I’ve learned to make do, like I have my whole life, all seventy-eight years of it. I just tell myself it’s like living in the Depression again. I ration my meals, and hoard saltines and sardines under the bed where no one will look.