Prologue
I budget the way criminals probably do. Carefully. Repeatedly. With the understanding that one mistake ruins everything.
My notebook is old, cheap, and technically older than the state of Idaho, though it doesn’t look it. I buy my stationery at the gas station where I work, because buying anything anywhere else feels indulgent. The cover is bent. The spiral is slightly rusted. I trust it more than I trust banks.
Minimum wage, forty-five hours a week if Daniel lets me stretch, paid biweekly. Taxes deducted. No benefits. No health insurance. No dental, which is ironic, given the teeth.
Rent first. Always rent first. Horseshoe, Idaho is not expensive, but it is persistent. It does not care how long you’ve lived. It does not care if you are immortal. It wants its money on the first of the month, and it wants it in full.
I’ve lived here four years. Same apartment. Same job. Same lie.
I write blood on the page, then cross it out and write groceries, because that’s what the receipt says.
I make a note about utilities. Electricity. Water. Internet. Internet is necessary. I tried going without it once. It turns out isolation hits different when you’ve already lived through the fall of multiple empires.
Gas is crossed out automatically. I don’t own a car. I bike or walk. I’ve learned which streets are poorly lit and which dogs are aggressive. I have been doing this longer than the dogs have been alive.
My shift is 11:00 PM to 4:00 AM.
In the winter, Idaho cooperates. The sun goes down early, slinks off by seven, and doesn’t crawl back up until five. In the winter, I could almost be normal. I could work more hours. I could take extra shifts.
Summer is less forgiving.
In the summer, the sun doesn’t set until ten-thirty, sometimes later. It hangs in the sky like it’s doing me a favor. Summer is why my availability is non-negotiable. Summer is why Daniel doesn’t argue with me anymore.
I circle my hours and write non-flexible next to them.
Underneath that, I write EPP, in block letters, like a ward.
Erythropoietic Protoporphyria. Rare. Painful. Documented. I have papers. Letters. A doctor’s note that looks real enough if you don’t think about it too hard. I don’t burn. I blister. I get sick. I collapse. I go to the hospital.
It’s all true. Just not all of it.
I’ve learned that people respect medical acronyms. They don’t ask follow-up questions. They nod. They make that face. The oh, that’s serious face. It’s a gift.
I flip the page.
Emergency fund: nonexistent.
Health insurance: a joke so old it’s circled back around to being funny again.
I pause, pen hovering, then write age: 24 in the margin.
Permanent.
That’s what the ID says.
I got this identity four years ago. New name. New birthday. April 19. I picked it because it felt neutral. No strong memories attached. No disasters. No celebrations worth remembering. I can fake twenty-four easily. I’ve been doing it for a while now.
I was twenty-four once. Briefly. I remember it mostly for the arrogance.
There’s a separate envelope in the back of the notebook. It’s thin now. It used to be thick. It used to be everything.
Cash from before. From the last version of me. From a life that ended quietly and on purpose. I keep it even though I shouldn’t. I’ve learned it’s dangerous to throw away proof that you were once real.
I don’t touch it tonight.
Instead, I flip back to the budget.
Coworkers get their own mental column whether I want them to or not.
Matthew has been here two years. College student. Loud. Curious. Asks questions like they’re free. He works nights with me sometimes and doesn’t understand why I never swap shifts. He will. Eventually. Or he’ll graduate and vanish like the others.
Jessica runs the day shift like a benevolent tyrant. She’s been here longer than anyone except Daniel and me. She calls me “sweetheart” and means it in a way that implies I am fragile. I let her.
Daniel is the manager. Daniel believes in rules and schedules and the idea that people are exactly what they look like. This is why he trusts me.
Patty floats between shifts. Mid-days. Some nights. From Mexico, sharp-eyed, impossible to lie to. When I get tired, she notices. When I tell people about the sun allergy, she nods like she’s filing it away for later. I don’t know what that means yet.
I close the notebook.
Everything balances. Barely. It always barely does.
I set the alarm for 9:45 PM, draw the blackout curtains, and lie down fully dressed, because it’s easier to get back up that way. Outside, summer hums. Somewhere, the sun is still awake and watching.
I wait for it to go away.
It always does.
Eventually.
