Abbie’s, mine fractionally larger, hers with the lopsided smiley face on the inside. Mine is empty. I reach into my pocket for my phone, wanting to send her a picture. Then I remember. I take my hand from my pocket and straighten up. The window glass is long gone. A few boards have been roughly laid across, so long ago now that the nail heads have traded their shiny gray skin for a rust-red exoskeleton. In the corner of the porch, there’s a pile of crumpled PBR cans and cigarette butts. I look at the door, rocked back on sagging hinges, and think about going in. Instead, I sit down on the front step. When Abbie and I were young, our best friends lived across the street. In the summer, our parents would barbecue on the sidewalk, watching us kids riding circles on our bikes. That house is a liquor store now. A man leans against the wall out front. He looks at me and lifts the brown paper bag to his lips, tilting the liquid onto his
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