Free The Art of Adapting by Cassandra Dunn

me. I do it at night when I can’t sleep and it helps my mind calm down. And the money keeps coming, but I don’t really need it for anything. Maybe you can use some of this money for acupuncture.” Matt pointed to his forehead, but he didn’t mean for him, so then he pointed to Lana’s forehead. “And to get more jeans. You’ve gained weight and those are too small for you now.”
    Lana looked up, hands back on her hips, wrinkles back in herhands. Matt tugged at one of the belt loops of his jeans, which were nice and worn from many washes, and showed her how they should fit.
    â€œI wear Levi’s. They fit perfectly.”
    â€œYes, they do,” Lana said, leaving with both the corn and the money.
    Matt sat on his bed, watching the back side of his closed door, waiting for her to return. He needed something on the door. A poster or calendar or something to look at while he waited. He rearranged the meatloaf plate, carrot bowl, and blue milk cup, but it didn’t feel right. He needed the small salad plate with the corn before any of it would work.
    The noise from the kitchen grew louder, then there were footsteps, too many of them and too loud, getting louder. He covered his ears again just as his door opened and Abby and Byron, very excited now, proper use of the word, jumped up and down in his doorway yelling something he couldn’t understand with his hands over his ears. Wouldn’t even have understood without his hands over his ears, he was pretty sure.
    They were wild and hopping, like rabid kangaroos. Only not Australian kangaroos, since there was no rabies in Australia. Kangaroos were marsupials. Opossums were also marsupials, and opossums were rabies-resistant. So perhaps kangaroos were rabies-resistant as well, even the ones not in Australia. Matt eyed his computer. If the kids weren’t jumping up and down in front of it he’d go look that up right now. Could kangaroos get rabies? It seemed very important to know.
    Then Lana came back with the corn, and he could see it steaming, a pat of butter precariously balanced on it and ready to slip off. She shushed the kids and Matt risked removing his hands to accept the corn.
    â€œWhat they mean is thank you,” she said, barely above a whisper.
    â€œThank you!” the kids both whispered, so loudly that it was like the rasp of a rake against concrete. They held up the money, his money, and smiled at him, as if waiting for something else.
    â€œThe corn is better now,” he said. The kids looked at each other, smiled in their magnet-pulling-together way, and left laughing.
    â€œYou’re a good uncle,” Lana said softly, “and a good and generous brother. But lay off my weight.” She shut the door and Matt leaned over the corn, inhaled the steamy aroma. It was perfect. It made up for the meatloaf.
    He finished his dinner and looked up the rabies statistics while he waited for his ice cream. Lana was good about always remembering the ice cream. He loved ice cream, but he never got it at Spike’s, because their freezer was broken, and Spike didn’t want a repairman to come inside to fix it. Spike never wanted anyone inside their apartment.
    Matt pulled out his Google map of directions to Spike’s apartment. It said it would take him three hours and forty-five minutes to walk the 11.3 miles. That seemed like an awfully long time. Matt didn’t know if he was a fast walker or a slow one. He only ever thought about walking to Spike’s in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. He knew he wasn’t supposed to take sleeping pills anymore, but he missed them. The ice cream was better at Lana’s, but the sleeping was better at Spike’s.
    The doctor had Matt on Wellbutrin now, which was supposed to keep him calmer, and he supposed it did. His impulse control was better. He didn’t act out anymore; when he got upset he was able to keep it inside until it