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here. His mother had used Grandma Waters’s surgery as an excuse to drag him away from Brigitte.
    Brigitte. Her name was a wail in his head.
    Up the stairs, he saw Lady was sitting outside his door. Was she waiting for him? He slowed as he approached to keep from scaring her, then crouched and held out his hand. She took a gingerly sniff. “You lonely, girl?” Me, too.
    The dog watched him, rigid and wary, but her tail made one flop onto the wood. A yes that warmed his heart.
    “I should warn you that she howls at night.”
    He turned to look at Marcus Barnard, who’d come up behind him. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted a different room.”
    “It’s all right.” David knew how the dog felt. He’d howl, too, if they wouldn’t put him in a mental hospital for it. Already, he had to see a shrink. “Why is she so sad?”
    “She misses her owner.”
    “Where is he?”
    “He died. About a year ago.”
    “Wow.” Looking again into Lady’s sad eyes, he felt his own sorrow well up and his eyes start to water. “Sorry, girl.”
    Marcus cleared his throat. “She could use a friend and she seems to like you.”
    “Yeah?” Would she come into his room? He opened his door and stepped inside. “Want in, girl?”
    Lady shivered, whined and stepped toward him, then back. She sat again. David’s heart sank.
    “Give her time.” Marcus acted so calm, like nothing could shock him. He was a psychiatrist, so maybe nothing did.
    “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.” He closed the door, leaving Lady outside. Maybe she thought he needed guarding.
    Inside his room, David felt worse. He’d thought it would be cool to have his own place, like in a hotel, but it smelled dusty and neglected and the bed was creaky-ancient and he didn’t have any of his posters. This wasn’t his place. It was a beat-up cell in a nowhere prison. He didn’t even have Internet.
    To calm down, he fished a joint from his small stash, then the bag of Cheetos he’d brought from home. He meant to eat only organic from the commune like he and Brigitte had discussed, but that goat cheese had tasted like ass.
    He took a giant hit, then flopped onto the bed. From the ice chest he’d put beside his bed he popped a can of Dr Pepper. He would quit junk food once he felt better.
    He wanted back to Phoenix now. Brigitte was going to a bunch of parties this weekend. He’d miss the whole summer with her. In August, she was doing a backpack-hitchhike deal, heading to Seattle, then across the country. By Thanksgiving, she’d be in Europe. If he didn’t lose his nerve, he’d go with her, screw school. It was all a fascist factory of mind control anyway.
    He took another toke, holding it in a long time, but the pot didn’t erase how raw he felt inside. He should run. Hitch a ride to the pathetic town and take the bus home. If a bus even came to New Mirage.
    If he knew how to drive, he’d borrow the Volvo, or one of the commune’s pickups or, hell, maybe that school bus of Bogie’s painted with hippie crap. Brigitte would love how retro it was. But he didn’t know how to drive because Christine said no permit until his grades went up.
    She killed every hope every time.
    David studied the smoke curling up from the spliff. His mom would go nuts if she knew he’d brought weed. Every thing freaked her out. She always had her eye on him, making him nuts with questions: Where are you going? Who will be there? How’s school? Do you like your English teacher? Are you using drugs? Promise me this, swear that, agree to x, never do y.
    His thoughts smeared and echoed. The bud was doing its trick. Good. He needed the world to blur. He took a long swallow of soda and a handful of the cheesy curls, which now tasted creamy and tangy and melted amazingly on his tongue.
    Christine didn’t know anything that went on inside him. Whenever he tried to say something real to her, she went pale and scared or red and mad.
    At times like this, loaded, he thought about his father. If he