"Dear Abby," by Angela Voras-Hills

I won't tell anyone you prefer nachos to sex—there's limited ammo for breeze-shooting,but I won't use yours. I tryto avoid guns, though my father keepsan oak cabinet full of rifles. He's neverboarded a plane, but once told securitymy mom had a bomb in her purse.(This was before psychics felt tremorsin their palms.) Last night, I spenttwenty minutes listening to hold musicon speaker phone, eating orangesover the kitchen sink. My tea leavesunfurled, said “stay,” so I curledfetal into bed, an African goat-bludgeoning club on my nightstand,and dreamt of a baby who could swimto shore in a rip tide. I woke up,taped price tags to all my furniture,and hauled it onto the lawn.It began raining before anyone could take it away.