I cross the floor and head into the kitchen. A lace-curtained window over the sink looks out onto the small back porch. The yard’s a tangled, snarled mess. Shit. Annoyed that I care, I turn, ready to tell her goodbye, tell her she’s on her own. But the words catch in my throat when I see her unpacking her duffel bag. A box of hair coloring. A laptop. Some files. A small stack of bright clothing and high heels. A tube of Pringles. My stomach turns. I flinch at the meager contents. That’s it? Everything she needs, everything important to her, crammed into one fancy fucking duffel bag. That’s
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