Free Life on the Level by Zoraida Cordova Page A

end-of-summer breeze. He’s the impossible blanket of stars and skies. He’s the bearer of graham crackers.
    “So what,” I ask, “I make a sandwich?”
    “It is so much more than a sandwich. It’s a little bite of heaven.”
    “I don’t know what heaven’s supposed to taste like. Do you?”
    “I do.” For a moment, Hutch looks at me. He hasn’t been making much eye contact. Not the way he looks at everyone else. But now, he watches me, and his answer sinks into my skin. The implication is ripe with the things we are not supposed to be doing.
    I clear my throat.
    He breaks off a piece of chocolate, and instructs me to hold out my flaming marshmallow.
    “Don’t let it burn too much. You have to blow it out.”
    “Finally, something I’m good at.”
    He acts like he didn’t hear me, but I catch the vein in his throat throb.
    “Okay, pull.”
    “Why is making s’mores so sexy?”
    “River.”
    “Hutch .” I pull the stick out, while he smooshes the sandwich together. It oozes down his fingers. I want to lick those fingers.
    I bite down and let the sugar melt on my tongue. “That’s the second best thing I’ve had in my mouth all week.”
    Vilma catches the last of my words. She saunters over in that cool way of hers. “Dirty girl. What was the first?”
    Hutch looks like he’s carefully waiting for my answer. I wonder if he thinks I’m that much of a loose cannon. Like I’m going to rat him out or put him in a precarious situation. I hope he knows I wouldn’t do that. I hope he knows that I’ll protect both of us.
    “Whiskey,” I blurt out.
    “Damn,” Vilma says. “I miss drinking. Not the hangover part, but right in the middle when you start to feel nice , you know?”
    I nod. Why did I have to say that? Now Fran, poor girl, chimes in. “I miss the numbness.”
    More people catch onto what we’re talking about. They gather around. What do you miss, River Thomas?
    I miss the moment where I wait to see if my bet was a good one. I miss knowing I was right. I miss my friends and my dad and coffee with a kick. I miss my own bed and noisy Manhattan streets and shitty bars and rigged jukeboxes and rude waitresses. I miss wishing I were somewhere else. I can’t share any of these things. I hold them too close to my heart.
    “I miss orgasms,” Debbie says.
    “I miss the high of not knowing if I’ll live through the night.”
    “I miss my kids.”
    Ransom nods from across the fire. “I miss my friend.”
    “I miss my dad,” I say, and no one is more surprised than I am that I’ll admit that to a group of strangers.
    There’s a hush that falls over us. I’ve never been around people like this before. I’ve only surrounded myself with people who understand me. No judgment. Sky and Leti. They always love me and want the best for me. But in their love, even in their toughest love, they couldn’t say no to me. Here, it’s the toughest kind of love because it comes from strangers. Strangers who are going through the same thing as me.
    If there was any doubt that I should be here, it’s gone.

Chapter 12
    The nights don’t get better. And when I do sleep, the dreams get worse. I see a man with a hideous scar chasing after me. Taylor makes his way into my dreams, too. He mops blood from the floor and calls me “girly.”
    Some nights I can hear other girls on my floor crying. It must be loud because the walls are mostly soundproof.
    Some nights I walk around the facility. I feel like a ghost wandering around. I’m not exactly supposed to be out of bed.
    I walk down the corridor. I’m pretty good at sneaking around and not getting caught. I firmly believe you can’t truly know what goes on in a place unless you see it when the lights are out. It’s like seeing a show behind the scenes or the sausage being made. It might not always be pretty.
    Once I saw the writer girl asleep in the computer room. Another time I saw the front desk clerk follow one of the rehab techs into a closet. I