Nonfiction | July 22, 2017

My mother doesn’t need to tell me about the bad days. The bad days when her muscles spasm and the bare nerves make her limbs go numb. The bad days when she’ll need more than just prescription pain pills. The bad days when I’ll go to the Kangaroo, the run-down gas station outside my neighborhood with its flashing security cameras and ice machines and wait for a guy we’ll call Terrance.

This essay is not currently available online.

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.