The truth is, my parents are alive. Pretending they’re dead makes their absence in my life tolerable. When the letter came from their attorney—crap—who would have guessed they had a lawyer? Anyway, it was like they were dead because it referred to money I might receive, “amount undisclosed.” That was just like them. Jesus. Amount undisclosed. What the hell was that supposed to mean? It could be five dollars for cripe’s sake.

I tightened my horse’s girth from where I sat in the saddle, and she swished her tail in irritation, tossed her head. We both needed a good gallop.

The letter said my parents had “made arrangements.” That’s a thinly-veiled Dad euphemism for “here’s what I want you to do, and I’ve fixed it so you have to.” He always gets his way. I went along like an idiot—hadn’t seen or heard from them in years, and I still went along.

I’m like a dog. I can say that because I have a dog—Noire—running alongside. Doesn’t matter how I treat her—and I treat her good—she’d be happy to see me.

Always hopeful. That’s what it was. I was hoping this time they’d finally come through for me—that it would be more than five dollars.

I can talk myself into anything.