My body hums with electricity, as if my veins pump TV snow-static instead of blood. Indian-style on the driveway, my ankle throbs and my knees beg to be straightened, but I remain still, almost fearful of disturbing the dead air around me. The night’s uneasy silence is broken by the house across the street; the front door opens and closes, followed by the distinct tst-ahh of a can opening. There’s no hope of that being soda; if the woman of 5754 is known for anything, it’s her predilection for alcoholic beverages and phone conversations that don’t end until she pours herself into bed with the rising sun. My ears prickle, anxious to hear another drunken rant, but, for what might be the first time in her life, she speaks in a hushed tone. The only sound that reaches me on the adjacent driveway is her familiar maniacal laughter, the cackle of a fairy-tale witch.

I take a pull from my cigarette, the slow burn like swallowing sand; coughed raw, my throat is the only part of me that protests. Greedy gulps from the glass of water at my side soothe the ache, but spread the smoke’s stale popcorn taste to every inch of my mouth. As has become habit, I flick my tongue over the space where my wisdom tooth used to be. Once a contributing member of my mouth, it’s now nothing more than a cavern, fleshy and smooth, that traps remnants of each meal I eat. I force an offending bit of food from its hiding place and spit it to the ground before stubbing out my cigarette.

Mother carries the stench of Marlboro wherever she goes, but I’m repulsed by the thought of smelling like an ashtray. From my purse I pull a bottle of perfume, spritzing each pulse-point, but I inhale too soon afterwards. The air, without enough time to settle, is filled with the scent of peaches and ethanol. My nostrils are assaulted, burning, but I pull myself to my feet, wobbling only slightly. I discard the red plastic cup in the grass, guiltless, and take slow steps back up the driveway. Reveling in my last few moments of silence, I take one more deep breath, bracing myself for the sounds of too many teenagers—running on too much liquid courage—in one house.