Page 20 of Taming Georgia

With each hesitant step I take toward her bedroom, I pray that she’s okay.

“Mom?” I crack the door to find her lying naked on her bare mattress.

There’s a needle next to her outstretched hand.

“Shit!” I race over to her and press my two fingers against her neck.

She grumbles and rolls over.

She’s just sleeping.

I dispose of the drug paraphernalia and cover her up with a blanket. I place a pillow at her back, keeping her on her side in case she vomits while she’s passed out.

I spend the next two hours scrubbing the apartment from top to bottom. I locate the smell, which is in fact cheese. Well, there’s cheese on the trap next to the mouse that appears to have been dead for quite some time.

I shower and decide I’ll go get a few groceries to make Mom a nice meal for when she wakes. Pulling the coffee can labeledGroceriesout of the cupboard, I open it to find it empty.

My chin falls to my chest with a sigh.

I open the refrigerator and it’s barren, too, save for the carton of rotten milk, which I throw out. I grab my jacket and head for the door.

Hopefully, work will have some burgers to throw in the trash tonight.

“Stay here,” I say to Georgia without looking in her direction.

I decide to go assess the situation without her first. In fact, I plan on doing most of the rescue without her. Ethel made me bring her, but I’m only working with her if I absolutely have to.

I second-guess leaving Georgia with Mr. Meaner but decide he’s too drunk to say anything too coherent anyway.

When I stick my head down to look through the hole underneath the building, I immediately see the pups. There are four sets of eyes staring back at me.

Upon further assessment, I notice these pups look like an older litter, maybe four or five months old. Not sure what happened to the mother, but I’m glad someone called in for these guys. They are bait dogs in waiting in this neighborhood.

“I’m going to help you, okay? Sit tight.” I back away from the hole and return to the truck for supplies.

After grabbing what I need, I walk back toward the puppies.

“I don’t need your help. You can go back,” I address the keeper of the annoying footsteps behind me.

“I’m supposed to help you,” she says pointedly.

“Okay, go help by sitting in the truck.”

She doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t halt her pursuit either.

“Why did you live here in high school if you went to school in Ann Arbor?” she inquires.

Evidently, Mr. Meaner isn’t too drunk to gossip.

I ignore her question.

I take out the rope and begin opening the cans of dog food. I situate the dog crate with the door open toward the gap beneath the brick.

“Are you going to lure them out with food? How many are there? What’s the rope for?” she rattles off questions.

“Why won’t you go away?” I hiss.

“Because I want to learn,” she snaps back. “Stop being a dick and teach me.”

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