Siobhan scuffs her Skechers

against the Corolla's frayed blue floor mat.

"When are you getting rid of

this old piece of shit?"

"When I can afford

a new piece of shit."

She stretches her neck-

a fiddler's habit,

but she does it when she's stressed.

Her mouth opens, ready to shout,

"You can afford it!"

But Mickey won't spend a penny

of what he calls my "blood money."

The millions our folks won

from the record company,

who sold me a dream

and gave me the bullet

that took my life.

In the backseat beside me,

Siobhan's boyfriend, Connor,

sleeps,

lips pale and slack.

"We deserved that money," she tells Mickey,

"for what they put us through."

"We deserve nothing."

Mickey's voice is as flat as the farmland

beyond the bridge.

"We were supposed to take care of him."

(They won't say my name.) "Stop punishing yourself."

Siobhan sounds too scared

to be mad,

which is saying a lot.

"Please."

"Spend the money," Mickey says,