Page 104 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

And then it turned up in lost and found a week later.

That sucks. But your dad…?

He’s got money, right? Didn’t he help out?

We had our scheduled visits on the weekends, but I don’t think he knew how we were living.

Barely functioning.

Mom wanted it that way.

Jeez. Mood killer. How did you grow up?

Shitty dad. My mom bends over backward for him. They probably used to be in love, but it kind of fizzled… One sister who refused to get into sports.

Are you? In sports?

Yeah.

Hockey?

Sydney…

I’m going to assume hockey, because that limits my options of who you could be. Two rosters versus two undergrad populations.

Do you still see your parents? Are you close to them, even if they’re shitty?

No.

I don’t see my mom either.

She’s missing…

For real?

I’m afraid to leave town because this is the last place she knew me to be. Her phone is off, her house—well, trailer—is gone. She used to leave a lot when I was a kid, and she always came back.

Something might be wrong.

I put the phone down and close my eyes. That felt too real to admit, but I typed and sent it without even thinking.

Something might be wrong.

She always comes back, and it’s been almost three months.

When I peek at my phone, there’s a reply waiting for me.

L.

No matter what happens, you’ll be okay.

You’re more of a survivor than you think.

Am I, though?

I rub at my eyes and shove away from the desk. I’ve written many poems inspired by my home life. Like the one about being swallowed by the sun. The one Penn mentioned. I go back and grab the notebook, flipping to that page.

I scan it while I pace, too restless to even stay sitting. It’s not so much a poem as flash fiction. Shorter than a short story.