He won't go far. He never does. I think that's why my mother treasures him so much. He never leaves her, never wanders from her side for too long.

When he plops down in the yard, my gaze shifts from the pane of glass down to the windowsill, noting the thick nails sticking out of the old wood, indiscriminately hammered in.

She nailed the windows shut recently.

"Everything going okay here, Mom?"

"Sure," she says. "Same as ever."

She doesn't sound very convincing.

The night flies by as we catch up. She seems relaxed, happy even. It eases my worries a bit.

Maybe I'm just overreacting.

Murder is premeditated killing of innocent...

…wrong because it's just not right to kill...

…considered immoral by society because...

…what I seem to be doing to this fucking essay.

I'm murdering it.

Sighing, I scribble out the words on the paper. I lean back in the old wooden chair, my feet propped up on the counter as I sit behind the register at the flower shop. My mother is scanning through the plants, smelling the bouquets and fixing the arrangements. She's had a total of two customers all day, making a whopping thirty bucks.

I don't know how long she can keep this up.

She doesn't seem bothered or worried at all. Killer lies on the floor near my feet, watching her. It's late afternoon on Saturday, and as much as I love my mother, and am grateful to get the chance to spend some time with her, I'm already bored shitless in this place.

I wonder how Naz is doing. I want to call him, to hear his voice, to see what he's up to, but I resist the urge. My hand absently drifts up to the necklace around my neck, and I tinker with the small pendant he gave me. I wonder if he's thinking about me, too. I wonder if he misses me yet.

"Is that new?"

My mother's voice draws my attention back to her. She's watching me. "Uh, yeah."

"It's pretty," she says, stepping closer. She grasps the necklace, eyeing it. "Where'd you get it?"

"It was a gift from a friend."

Her eyes narrow as she reads the inscription. "Carpe Diem."

"Yeah, it's a Latin saying." Standing up, I switch the subject. "I'm hungry. Is that hot dog place still around the corner? I can grab us some lunch."

"Yeah," she mumbles. "How about I come with you? I'll close up a little early today."

I wait for her to finish what she's doing, crumbling up my pathetic start of an essay and toss it in her trashcan. We head out, strolling down the sidewalk, Killer wandering along right behind us. My mother seems on edge now, eyes darting around nervously. Halfway there she stops abruptly, shoulders squaring, body tensing as she scans the traffic flowing by on Main Street.

"Mom?" I grab her arm. "Are you okay?"

She blinks a few times, turning to me, and forces a smile. "Yeah, I've just been thinking... this town is getting so big lately. So many new people. Nothing like it used to be."

"It seems the same to me."

Even smaller, maybe.

"I don't know," she says hesitantly. "I think it might be time to move on now."

"But you love it here," I say. "And you have the shop."

"I can open a shop anywhere," she says. "Maybe out west. Finally get away from New York for good. You've always wanted to see California."

"Yeah, but..."

I don't know what to say.

"We can get a little house near the water," she says. "Killer will love the beach. It's perfect. It'll be just like old times, you and me on the open road, starting over brand new somewhere. What do you say, Kissimmee?"

"Mom, I can't move to California."

"Why not?"

"Because I have school," I say. "I have a life in the city."

"You can have a life anywhere."

Her blasé attitude about it frustrates to the point that it almost hurts. Will she ever understand my need for stability? My need for somewhere to finally call home?

"I like my life here," I say. "For the first time, I have friends, friends that really know me, friends I want to keep. I don't want to leave them."

She shakes her head, appearing distraught, like she hadn't anticipated me resisting. It was different when I was younger. When she said go, I had to go. But now I'm grown. Now I'm off on my own.

"You don't understand," she says. "The city is just so dangerous."

"It's not… no more dangerous than anywhere else. It's my home. I can't just move again. I'm happy where I am."

She says nothing else about it.

She says nothing at all, to be frank.

She walks with me to get lunch, walks with me back to the shop, and drives us to the house in Dexter without uttering a single word to me. The night is strained. I go to bed early, lying in the small room and staring at the ceiling.

Guilt is eating away at me.

I hear her pacing the house, mumbling, words I can barely make out and am frightened to hear. The words 'Carpe Diem' come from her lips like she's a broken, skipping record, and I clutch the pendant of my necklace tightly, fighting back tears. Because I know she's talking to him, appealing to an invisible man named John, the one who walked out on her when I was born.

I know it's not my fault. Not my fault she's this way. Not my fault he left her. But fuck if I don't feel guilty anyway.