Pork & Beans

I strain. Count the days since he’s been here.

Since he’d tied me up, he hasn’t come back.

Bending down, I lick cold pork and beans off the floor. Eight days--no, nine. Pork and beans has a way of making the days blend together.

I lie down against the cool cement and smile. There’s a breeze tickling my nose and a sun beating down at me. I’m at the beach!

The slam of a car door jolts me out of my delusion. I smile at the air vent and nod to the lamp above me.

“Thank you,” I tell them before the door at the top of the steps swings open.

He doesn’t say anything, the silhouette in the doorframe. Today he has a knife.

“Hey, Dad.”

And then the lights went out.