The vintage dress was the best. There was something bold about it, even though, in comparison to the outfits on the other mannequins, it wasn’t particularly short or revealing. The red fabric, the high-waisted skirt with black and white flowery patchwork on the side, the swing hemline and the decorative buttons on the waist—it was just so feminine that Rory’s eyes caught it every time he passed it by.

If I were a girl, I’d wear something like this. That wasn’t true, though. A girl or a boy, he would have still been himself, and he wouldn’t have had the guts to put this on. This was a dress for drawing attention, and he was the invisible type.

Someone like Madeline would have rocked it. She probably would have preferred something more modern-looking, but she wouldn’t have had a problem with the attracting-attention part. In fact, she would have relished it.

He crossed the empty street, the asphalt glittering under the streetlights after the recent rain. Most shops were already closed by this hour. Roll-up gates covered in graffiti concealed their windows, except for the brave one with the dresses that remained on display all night. Perhaps out of respect for its defiance, the robbers left it alone—or maybe stealing clothes just wasn’t worth the trouble.

Rory turned left at the end of the street and entered the unlit path leading to the trailer park. He hated this part. Trees and bushes grew along the path, and it was impossible to predict if some nutjob or a junkie would jump out at him. Luckily, no surprises awaited him today, and he safely emerged into the parking lot. The gates stood open, and to the other side of them lay what the locals called The Promenade—a wide asphalt path running the length of the park.

Rare streetlamps spilled their dim light onto the rows of mobile homes. Some were dark, others sported lights in their small windows. Nobody was outside at this hour. Children’s toys lay discarded in front of some of the trailers, folding chairs and parasols stood in front of others. The place had a deserted feel to it, yet for Rory it was home. The proximity of the houses and the sight lines allowing the neighbors a direct view of the nearby homes had discouraged criminals, making the park a surprisingly safe place, even at night.

“Rory?” called a wavering voice. “Rory, dear, could you…”

An old woman waved at him from the doorway of a nearby trailer.

“Sure, Mrs. Zielinski.” He walked over. She stepped aside, allowing him to come in. In her kitchen, almost untraversable due to all the boxes and jars and cleaning items she had jammed into it, two black garbage bags waited on the floor. He grabbed them and pulled them outside, trying not to squash Mrs. Zielinski in the process.

“God bless you,” she said as he dragged the bags to the trash can.

“You’re welcome,” he puffed, throwing them into the bin one by one. For an elderly widow living on her own, Mrs. Zielinski sure produced an impressive amount of garbage.

“How’s Patricia?” she said.

“She’s fine.”

“Send her my best wishes, will you?”

“Sure will.”

“Are you going out tonight?”

She kept asking each time, even though he had never answered in the affirmative. After work, he never had the energy for anything more than grabbing something to eat and going to bed. Still, Mrs. Zielinski kept asking, and he kept answering. Perhaps she didn’t remember she’d asked before, which was kind of sad.

“Not today, ma’am. Good night!”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

He could see the light in the kitchen window of his trailer, a dim yellow glow, and hear the TV even before he reached the door. He pulled the key out, then paused and tried the door handle. It turned easily under his hand.

“Mom!” he called, stepping in. “You forgot to lock the door again.”

He paused, sniffing the air. The smell of rum was strong in the room. The framed pictures on the wall—the ones he’d drawn as a child, when he’d been into making comics—hung askew, as if something had been hurled at them. Under his feet, shards of broken glass glittered on the floor.

The TV was tuned to a shopping channel. His mother sat slumped in the armchair in front of it, her chin on her chest, her snoring mixing with the cheerful voices of the presenters. Rory stepped forward, his sneakers crunching on the glass, and picked the remote from the floor. He clicked the red button, and the chattering thankfully ceased. The place grew darker, the only remaining illumination coming from the lamp in the kitchen.

He stood there for a while, watching her, the hopelessness growing in his chest. She’d stayed sober for almost two weeks. It’d looked promising this time, but in his heart he knew it was never going to work. She was going to be like this forever, and he would take care of her, and pay the bills, and feel guilty about not being able to pull her out of this.

“Mom,” he said, not expecting an answer. “What the hell, Mom.”

Her breathing didn’t change. He shook his head, placed the remote on the table and bent over her. She smelled of booze and sweat when he scooped her into his arms. Swaying a little under her weight, he made his way to the bed and lowered her onto it. She wasn’t too heavy, but he’d been dragging trays of food all day, and his back didn’t appreciate the extra effort. He grabbed a couple of pillows and pushed them under her neck and head. If she started to puke during the night, she better not be lying flat on her back.

He needed to change her clothes. He needed to load the washer. He needed to clean the glass from the floor, or she could get up during the night and fall and cut herself. He looked around the messy little trailer and felt like crying. He didn’t have the energy for any of that. Perhaps some food would help.

He headed for the fridge and opened it. The empty shelves glared back at him. There was a pack of potatoes and a half-bottle of milk. All the other stuff that had been there in the morning was gone. Apparently, she hadn’t just got drunk, but also binged on the food he’d bought them.

He shut the door and checked the cabinets. The packets of chips were gone, too. Perhaps she’d exchanged the food for booze, or for money to buy it. There were a few people in the park who would cooperate with her on that.

He fished out a pack of pasta and looked at it with one eye, rubbing the other one tiredly, wondering if cooking was worth the trouble at this hour or if he was better off just cleaning up the glass and dropping into bed.

His phone rang. He slipped it out of his pocket and pressed the button.

“Yes,” he said. “What?”

“Hi, man,” said Andrew. “I need your help.”

“Look, I really have my hands full right now.”

“Man, I’m starving. I’m literally starving.”

“Order something.”

“I did, but that dumbass delivery guy left the pizza on my doorstep! I can literally see it from my window, but I can’t get it, dude! I could use a helping hand.”

Me too.

“What kind of pizza?” he said instead.

“Three kinds—pepperoni, pineapple, mushroom. Double cheese, all of them.”

Rory’s mouth watered. He looked down at the unappealingly uncooked pasta in his hand.

“Will I get a couple slices for my trouble?”

“Fine,” said Andrew after a short pause. “Just get your ass here, will you?”

“All right,” Rory said. “Coming.”