Tight Knit Read Online Free PDF Page B

anymore. 
    Garrett comes bounding down the stairs and I almost punch him in the face, making his other eye black. I stop my twitching hand by curling my fingers into my palm. 
    Whatever happened to just smoking a joint in your parent’s basement?
    “What’s your problem, man?” Garrett sees through my anger, which isn’t hard to do. I’m not exactly subtle about it. My criminal record is proof of that. 
    “Nothing, dude. Just check me so I can get out of here.” I spread my arms and legs. Garrett runs his hands along the length of my body making sure I don’t have weapons or wires. He sticks his hands in my pockets, pulling my phone out to make sure it’s not recording anything. He reaches under my t-shirt and pats his hand up to my chest and around to my back to make sure I’m not ‘wearing’ then traces up my neck and around my ears. I just stare straight ahead. I’ve been searched so many times by cops and guards and social workers, I’m good at blocking it out.
    Technically, Garret is supposed to do this right when I walk in the door, but he knows I’m cool. 
    He presses the brown package into my chest and opens the front door.
    “I hear your probation is up.” He grabs my shoulder, “We’ll be sorry to see you go, man. I’ve never seen anyone able to run while on probation and not get caught.” 
    He laughs. I nod to him and leave without saying goodbye. I have no response. I’m the best and I hate myself for it. 
    The text comes before I even reach my bike. 
    754 Vista Court. Over the fence. DO NOT go to the door.
    I pull the phone closer to my face. My eyebrows burrow together as I read the address again. Vista court is the rich end. I’ve never done a run there before. The rich use a middleman so us lowly runners don’t know who they are. But I guess if I’m just throwing it over the fence. 
    I glare the entire way to Vista Court, get lost twice and almost turn around and leave. Every street is named Vista something and every house looks the damn same. What is it with these people? 
    Finally, I find the house and throw the package over the fence. It’s weird, throwing it in the yard, but I don’t question it. 
    One, it’s my job to not know. Two, I really don’t care.
    ~
    The air is hot and stuffy. The house doesn’t have air conditioning and all I hear is the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the ceiling fan but it does nothing to stop the sweat from pouring off my face. I’m crouched against the wall in the far corner of our tiny living room clutching my arm. The sweat from my fingers stings the open wound. My small body is tucked behind the couch. I’m crying. Shaking. There is vomit on my t-shirt. I don’t know if it’s mine. Sometimes it hurts so bad I throw up. 
    I hear his voice and my heart slams against my ribs.
    Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. The ceiling fan spins, swirling the dusty air. 
    “Where is he?” he’s mad. He’s been drinking that brown stuff. His voice only sounds like that after he drinks the brown stuff. 
    I push further into the crack. Maybe he won’t reach me. He doesn’t try as hard when he’s wobbly. 
    I lift my hand to look at the burn on my skin. 
    Smoke fills my nostrils. It hurts. The smell makes my stomach flop. The scent of burning skin.
    Stronger. The pain, the smell. I want it to stop.  
    I press my palm on my nose but it won’t go away. The smoke still lingers. 
    I just want it to go away. 
    I rock back and forth. I cry harder. The smoke gets thicker.
    ~
    My eyes spring open as the smell of burning eggs and cheese overpower my senses. I’m leaning on my hand on Gram’s vinyl countertop and must have fallen asleep. 
    I run to the stove through the smoke and grab the pan off the burner. It burns my hand and I drop the pan with a clatter and shake my hand.
    Gram is standing in the doorway in her nightgown and robe, smiling. She hands me a dish towel and I use that to lift the pan. 
    “Sorry, Gram, only slightly burnt this time.” I