1642734778_punk-57-pdf

Everything is dark, not a single light shining through any of the windows.
My dad has to be home, though. It’s pretty late.
I slip my key into the lock, always nervous that I’ll find it doesn’t work.
Of course, my father wouldn’t have any reason to keep me out—he never
told me to leave, after all—but I’m not really sure he wants me here, either.
Stepping inside, I close the door behind me and stick my keys back in
my pocket. A pungent odor hits my nostrils, and I wince, gazing around.
Trepidation creeps in. The house is a mess. My dad was always a neat
freak, and with my sister and me helping with chores, we kept a nice house.
But I look around, seeing mail and newspapers on the floor, some
laundry on the stairs, and I smell something that’s a mixture of old food and
dirty clothes.
Walking past the sitting room, I notice a light coming from the living
room and peer in, seeing the TV playing. The sound is low, and my father is
lying on the recliner in his pajamas and robe. A table full of coffee cups,
napkins, and a barely-eaten plate of food stands next to his chair.