Jude doesn’t talk much after I give him directions to my house. He’s obviously not one of those people who has to fill the silence with random, dumb conversation like what’s your favorite class? or we really needed this rain.

Instead, he says, “You like Pink Floyd, Sparkles?” with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

“Hell, yeah. Who doesn’t?”

Grinning, he flicks a tattooed finger over a button on the steering wheel and the familiar, haunting sound of Dark Side of the Moon surrounds us with its unique lull. I don’t know how many hours I’ve laid in bed with incense cones lit on my nightstand, staring up at the ceiling listening to this album when I felt overwhelmed with life. It always calms and grounds me.

“Nothing better than musical therapy, huh?” Jude says, as if he’s reading my mind.

I nod. “So true.”

We sing the lyrics together, which should be awkward, but isn’t.

“You can just drop me off here and I’ll walk the rest of the way,” I offer when we near the bent address sign at the top of my street.

Ignoring me, he makes a left onto the bumpy road.

“Don’t be silly. I told you I’d drive you home, not dump you off on a corner in the rain.” He shakes his head and glances at me. “Which house is it?”

I point to the right and gather up my backpack and purse. “Two houses down. The one with the camper.”

He slowly pulls into the driveway and throws the truck in park.

“Anybody home?” His forehead creases as he takes in the dark house, noticing how the thick curtains covering the windows don’t allow the slightest glimpse of light in or out. No visible blue glow from a television playing in the living room. Cobwebs cover the porch light, which hasn’t had a bulb in it for years.

“My mom is home. She keeps it dark because she gets bad headaches.” I recite the lie well. After all, I’ve been telling it successfully for years. “Thanks for helping me today and giving me a ride.”

“Not a problem at all.”

I hesitate before saying good-bye, wondering if I’ll see him again. “Are you still gonna be working on that house? By the school?”

He nods. “Yeah, we’ve got a few more weeks left there.”

“Cool. I’ll probably see you around, then?”

“I’m sure you will.”

I bite my lip to hide my smile. “Well, have a good one, Jude.”

“You too, Skylar. Stay outta trouble.”

“I’ll try.”

When he smiles, one side of his mouth lifts higher than the other. All of a sudden it hits me that I’m in a car alone with a super-hot, much older guy with ink-covered, tan muscles, hair to his shoulders, and eyes the color of slate. He’s not pretty or polished, but he’s got that whole rugged, sexy construction worker package. Tight white T-shirt, faded dusty jeans and worn brown work boots. Attractive dirtiness.

I jump out of his truck and slam the door, but he doesn’t pull away. I realize he’s trying to be all noble and gentlemanly and actually watch me get to my front door safely.

Sighing, I trek up the crumbling walkway to the house, then turn to wave at him with one hand on the handle of the rusty screen door. I force a smile that says, Yes, I’m home safe. Nothing to worry about.

If only that were true.

I feel kinda bad when he smiles and waves back before reversing into the street, because he seems like a nice guy. After waiting a few seconds to make sure he’s no longer watching me, I go around to the rear of the house and past the old camper my dad lived in. I step onto the wooden crate leaning against the house, slide my bedroom window open, and climb inside.

Fluffle-Up-A-Gus, my cat, jumps off the bed and immediately sprints over to rub against my ankles, tail held high like a flag. I scoop her up and sink my face into her soft, mink-gray fur.

“I missed you today, Gus.” She erupts into purrs and kneads her paws into my shoulder. “Did you miss me? Let’s get you fed.”

I gently put her down and fill her dish with crunchy food, then pour water into her bowl from a plastic bottle.

Yawning, I pull my clothes off and throw them into the hamper, then carefully squat over a large bucket behind the closet door. I wipe myself with a small square of toilet paper and place it in a plastic trash bag, then scoop the clumped urine from the cat litter in the bottom of the bucket, sifting it into the trash bag. I repeat the process with the cat’s litter box on the other side of the closet, then tie the bag up to throw away tomorrow.

I begin my daily ritual of cleaning my face and body with baby wipes, then spray dry shampoo into my hair.

Finally, I pull on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. Gus winds around my feet, seeking attention, which I love. Smiling down at her, I kneel in front of my small refrigerator to take out a bottle of water, two slices of bread, and a tub of butter. Worry about my car plagues me as I spread butter on the bread with a plastic knife. I chew absently, trying to calculate how many extra hours I’ll have to work at the boutique to pay for whatever’s wrong with it. There’s only so many hours I can do part-time, so it could take me weeks to pay it off.

Seems I can never catch a break.

Before I can settle into bed to watch TV, I unlock the three deadbolts on my bedroom door and peer out into the dark hallway. A sour, musty stench immediately fills my nostrils. My stomach roils with nausea. I can hear the television and see the dim flashes of light coming from the living room at the end of the hall.

“Goodnight, Mom,” I call out, my voice wavering.

I can’t see her, but I’m sure she’s still there—on the old, green couch. It’s been months since I’ve attempted to venture out of my bedroom, but I know she’s surrounded by piles upon piles of stuff, possibly reaching the ceiling by now. To get to any other room, or even the front door, I’d have to squeeze through narrow pathways and climb over stacks of boxes and junk covering the floor. The kitchen and bathroom are so filthy and crammed I stopped using them two years ago. Even the old camper is filled to the brim with old clothes, blankets, fake plants, holiday decorations—you name it. My hopes of moving into it when it was empty were dashed when she had it filled in less than a month after my dad left.

My mother is a hoarder.

I’ve been forced to take refuge in my bedroom, unable to use the bathroom and running water like a normal person. There’s probably two hundred bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and liquid soap out there amongst the chaotic piles, but if I try to take any, my mom will have an epic fit. I have to keep my bedroom door locked at all times because it’s valuable real estate in her eyes. A twelve-by-fourteen space for her to fill with thousands of dollar-store items, life-size animal statues, treadmills, or faux fur coats.

She never uses any of the things she buys. They just get added to the museum of her belongings. But in some whacked-out way, it all gives her a kind of satisfaction that I will literally never, ever, understand.

My father lived in the camper for almost four years, unable to deal with it all. Then one day he was gone, leaving me with a note of apology and the reality of fending for myself in the jungle of this house. He tried to talk to her many times over the years, to get her to seek help, but she refused. I’ve done the same, but she won’t listen. She shuts down and clams up. Now, she barely speaks to me. How can she when we have to wade through mountains of garbage to physically be in the same space? Instead, I have to call or text her to communicate. I used to wonder if she cared about what this was doing to me. If she worried about me climbing through windows, using a bucket as a toilet, and hiding in my room with my cat.

There’s no use in wondering, though, because I already know the answers.

I close my door and relock it with a sigh of relief. I’ve managed to create my own little safe world in here with Fluffle-Up-A-Gus. We have everything we need to survive. It’s almost as if the nightmare on the other side of the door doesn’t exist.

But it’s also slowly starting to feel like I don’t exist, either.