Your dad leaves a note, five Hefty bags, and two U-Haul boxes on your bed. You can keep what fits in the boxes and ONE bag, he writes. Everything else is trash. “Lease’s up in a month,” he says that night. I found a one-bedroom across town. “You can sleep on the couch until you graduate. I won’t need the space when you’re gone.” He sips his whiskey and turns the tv louder. You’re almost 16 and your mom left three months ago.

The boxes have been sitting on your floor for a week. Fish or cut bait, he says from your doorway one night. At the table that night he mumble-sings “Yesterday… trouble far away… half the man…,” pointing his fork at you humming the words he can’t remember. Forgetting is a blessing, he slurs at you over the mac and cheese. You sit quietly until he leaves the table. You wish you could hear your mom’s voice. You hope she’s trying to remember yours, too.

She took a small suitcase and her reasons with her. You and your sister come home from school three weeks after your mom left and see men loading boxes in a Christians in Action truck. They won’t take torn dresses, a cracked makeup mirror, and a dresser with drawers that won’t shut. Your sister leaves the next day. That night you hear your aunt yelling at your dad. He calls her names that would get you slapped and slams the phone down.

You start putting things in piles. You pack any clothes that still fit, and you keep a pair of jeans that are too tight just in case he won’t buy you anymore. You look for reasons this is your fault. You go into your sister’s room to see if she left anything you want. You take a wool beanie that smells of her and cigarettes. You wonder if she took anything of yours.

You realize you don’t have a picture of your sister. She’s been gone two weeks. The school calls. “She moved. She’s 18 and does what she wants. Like her mother,” he says into the landline looking at you. The phone handle is cracked. The next day, you help him carry her stuff to the dumpster.

You could run away. Your sister’s friend gives you a postcard at school one day. She’s living with your cousin on your mom’s side. She writes they have room for you. Don’t tell him where I am. You hide the postcard in your box. You memorize the return address.

He drinks more than normal. You sneak into their room. His room now. You don’t see any boxes. The bed is unmade. You take her hairbrush before he throws it away. Their wedding photo is torn and scattered across the floor. The glass from the frame embedded in the carpet. You find her face and shoulders by the dresser. You put that half of the photo in your wallet. He finds the brush the next day and hits you with it until it breaks. You hope he doesn’t find the blue scarf you gave her one Christmas under your jeans.

You pack the beach towel your sister bought you in Port Aransas and a frog your mom sewed back together after he tore the head off and threw it across the room one night. “Frankenfrog,” she said, using red thread, trying to fix things. “Boys don’t play with dolls,” he said. You were 9. The barely worn Astros cap he bought you in 1982 goes in the trash.

You wonder if your pillow counts as something you have to pack. You stuff your sheets in the trash bag just in case. You’re proud of your practicality, but you already miss the Van Halen t-shirt she gave you for your first day of 9th grade. You’re moving in a week and have memories that won’t fit in the boxes.

The new apartment is on the second floor. The couch barely fits. “Lift your fucking end higher,” he tells you. “Useless,” he says when you drop a chair late in the day. Most nights he passes out on what’s supposed to be your bed. You lay the sheets down on the floor, happy your pillow fit in the trash bag. Your old mattress is in the dumpster.

Your dad drinks. You’ve started cooking. Mac and cheese with chopped wieners is easy. You ask if you can go to the store when there’s no food. He gives you $50. You realize you’ve never been grocery shopping. The first time you buy candy, hamburger meat, and some canned goods. He slaps you when you ask for more money. The next time, you buy rice, beans, tv dinners, canned corn, bread, peanut butter, and jelly. He barely eats.

At school, your teachers ask if you are okay. You barely pass your junior year. People are surprised you’re still in school. Your dad tells you to get a job. The McDonald’s uniform fits better than most of your clothes. You smell like french fries almost all the time. You hate potatoes even to this day.

Your dad loses his job with Dow Chemical. Late and belligerent one too many times. He asks why you sleep on the floor. “Freak,” he says under his breath. He doesn’t remember most nights the next morning. Your senior year, you work at Walmart to pay the rent. Your dad doesn’t come home one night. The police call. You have to take the bus to The City Limits Bar to get his car and drive to the station. He slaps you for taking so long.

Your mother left two years ago. Your dad’s been barely here for much longer. The scarf, photo, and postcard fit in your backpack. You wear your sister’s beanie. You leave your dad passed out on the couch and no note when you leave.