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We have definite rules. You can’t steal money. You can’t steal someone else’s stuff. But stealing a shower? That’s fair game. If people let themselves be duped, that’s on them. I crank up the hot water and let it blast over my head, washing away the last nineteen hours in the station wagon. A thousand miles of driving, plus a four-hour nap parked behind a dumpster somewhere in the armpit of Tennessee. Mom and I fake-smiled and lied our way into free guest passes at the Max Fitness Hub using our go-to story about wanting to test out the gym before joining. Like we’re some kind of gym connoisseurs. Or people who could ever afford a membership. I watch Mom at the sink through the gap in the shower stall door. She squeezes a blob of toothpaste onto her brush, but then just stares blankly into the mirror, all those fake smiles gone now. Even from here, I can see the three chicken-pox scars on her forehead shining in the harsh light of the locker room. The more stressed Mom gets, the whiter and shinier those scars get. This morning, they look like freaking headlights. Not a good sign. “You OK out there?” I call.