I was peeling the burn to its bottom layers, the ones that weren't white and raw but a deep spotted red. It wasn't leaking anymore; the cold froze that small 'o' on my hand shut, stinging my bones, begging every nerve to give up. Building and building, so all I could do was wheeze. Levi was waiting behind the thin door that slammed too easily, so I stifled my sobs and ignored his light knocking. I wasn't going out, not after the crash, the biting cold. "Shawn?" Levi's thuds were more frenzied now. Maybe the few people in the gas station started turning their heads. "You okay in there, man?" "Obviously not." The fluorescent bathroom light cast a dingy yellow on the smudges of spit and fingers, concealing the deep-set lines under my puffy eyes. The car, Dottie, was still out there, being slowly buried under the Michigan snow, all our belongings still inside her trunk. "You can stop knocking now; I'm talking." "I called your mom." My eyes pull to the corner overflowing with paper towels, at the cockroach trap shifting. "Why would you do that?" I turned the faucet on again, biting my chapped lips, dancing to the pain. My torso was still shaking from the cold like I was some deranged belly dancer. "The car isn't yours. Well, not technically." I could hear something scrape against the other side. "I know this isn't what we planned." He sighed, I sighed, the bathroom fan grumbled. We had made our way through northern Michigan because ferries and ships at the port could still leave, even in the winter. It could stay running until the entire harbor freezes over. It was a half-assed plan, but it was all we had. We would go to Mackinac Island. We were young, and they needed snow shovelers, maids, assistants. Hardly anyone stays on the island during the winter, so there were plenty of places to sneak into. "Don't feed me that shit. There is no plan now." "Come on, let me in." He knocked again, softer. "I can't." I had to keep wiping my eyes. But I unlocked the door anyway. It took a few seconds for Levi to try the handle again. I see him in the mirror first, his eyes wide, his mouth gaped open like he was confused. He shuts the door quickly behind him, not assessing the damage until after. I had somehow forgotten his hat. It was ridiculous—green and neon orange against his perfect dark skin. “This place is fucking disgusting,” he says. It barely had room for the sink, and the once white walls were stained a spotted grey. “Did you make that smell?” He finally smiled when I laughed. We Were Jealous of the Ships | Fiona Young
97
