The air inside Jackson Station tasted of stale ozone and damp wool. It was a biting, wet cold that seeped through the soles of my cheap boots—boots I had bought online for twelve dollars because my leather ones had been sold to a consignment shop three weeks ago. I stood near the edge of the platform, my body acting as a human shield against the wind for my four-year-old son, Miles.
He was shivering in a snowsuit that was a size too small, the cuffs riding up his shins. I kept my head down. Invisibility was my armor now.
I had perfected the art of shrinking, of becoming a gray smudge in the background of a gray city. “Amara? Amara Hayes, is that you?”
The voice hit me like a physical blow.
It was familiar, deep, and laced with a confusion that terrified me. I froze, my hand tightening instinctively around Miles’s mitten. I considered running, just bolting for the stairs, but my legs felt like lead.
I turned slowly. Standing ten feet away, looking impeccably put together in a wool coat and scarf, was my father, Vernon. I hadn’t seen him in two months.
I had dodged his calls, invented flu bugs, work crises, and imaginary vacations. I had built a wall of lies to keep him away, to keep him safe. But now, the wall had crumbled.
He closed the distance, his eyes—usually so warm—narrowing as they scanned me. He took in everything: the rip in my puffer coat where the down was leaking out, the gaunt hollows of my cheeks, the dark bruising of exhaustion under my eyes, and the tremor in my hands that I couldn’t suppress. “Dad,” I croaked.
I tried to smile, to plaster on the mask I wore for the world, but my face crumpled. My lip quivered uncontrollably. “Why are you at the subway station?” he asked, his voice low and tight.
“Where is your car? I bought you that Kia Forte for your birthday last year. Where is it?”
“I sold it.” The words tasted like ash.
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