June 2016
Dallas, Texas

If you had told me three weeks ago that I'd be standing in a Wal-Mart cramming a stuffed snowman into the top of my pants at 2:30am, I would have laughed. But that is exactly what I'm doing. I take a quick look around before daring to pause my efforts and take a huge breath. I'm sweating like crazy. I knew the heat would be a pain in my ass before I started this little adventure, but I didn't anticipate just how much suffering it would cause. Unfortunately the hoodie is the biggest article of clothing I own, so it's the only thing that'll hide a giant plush snowman.

Pixie hasn't slept through the night since we left Oklahoma; she's exhausted, whiny, and scared. I was going to do something practical about it, like buy some Benadryl and spike her apple juice. I was feeling pretty scummy about doing that so I was glad when she gave me another idea.

Pixie has seen Frozen exactly three times, but she somehow memorized most of the songs and sings them constantly. Earlier today we were shopping in Wal-Mart. Not stealing. Some honest to God shopping. She saw this big Olaf plush on a shelf at the end of the toy aisle, which I was trying to avoid like the plague. Before I could lead her away she'd already seen it and ran for it.

"Austin, look! Can I have it?" she asked me, her big green eyes shining as she gave the toy a hug.

I was not planning to steal today. Stealing is reserved for desperation, and I only do it if the items are small enough. This plushie was not exactly a protein bar from a gas station. So I said, "No, Pixie."

"Please," she begged.

This kid doesn't understand the fact that we're broke and homeless now. She still thinks we're on some amazing vacation. That Disneyworld story I told her the night we left has become a lifeline. It keeps her quiet on the rough nights when she whines about sleeping in the hot van or eating cold Spaghettios straight out of the can. Someday, she'll understand why I did this.

"I said no. Don't ask me again," I said.

"Pretty please, Austin?"

I stopped walking, feeling myself getting annoyed.

"Asked and answered," I said, which works like a charm at shutting her down.

Pixie pouted as she pushed the toy back onto the shelf, but an idea was cooking in my brain. What if it helped her sleep? What if it could replace me in my nightly duty of laying next to her until she drifts off? I also know Wal-Mart is a pretty easy place to steal from due to the large crowds and ever-changing employees who, as a general rule, don't give a shit. It might be easy. It might work.

It's the middle of the night so the only people in the store now are tweakers and people stocking shelves. Everyone else looks either too busy to notice me or creepier than I am. I count on those creepers to take away the attention that would normally be on me. All it takes is cutting Olaf out of the cardboard box with a pocket knife and stuffing him up under my hoodie. I did step one with ease but the stuffing part was harder than I thought.

Sweat is running down my face, and Olaf doesn't help now that his fake snow-fur is smooshed against my chest. With Olaf all up in my clothes I'm sure I look like a homeless Santa Claus as I walk out, but nobody even glances my way. Score.

Back at the van, Pixie is awake and waiting for me.

"Why'd you go in?" she asks curiously.

"Because I needed something else. Why are you still awake?" I say, climbing into the back of the van and closing the two heavy doors.

She looks around my back and ignores my question. "You don't have bags."

"It didn't fit in a bag."

"What is it?" she asks.

"Nothing," I say, acting all nonchalant, but I'm smiling because I can't help it.

"Austin, pleeeeaaaase tell me!" she cries, grabbing the front of my hoodie. She pauses, furling her eyebrows, and gives my belly a poke.

"You're fat," she says. "What did you eat and why didn't I get some?"

"It's not food. It's not anything," I say, continuing to drag out the anticipation just for the fun of it.

Pixie jumps onto her knees and clasps her little hands together. "Please, please, please, please times infinity please, please, please, infinity twice, please-"

"ALRIGHT!" I shout happily, and I yank Olaf out like I'm giving birth or something.

Pixie screams with delight and lunges for it. "OLAF!"

"Yep. He begged me. He said he really liked meeting you today and wants to come with us. I couldn't say no."

Pixie grins. "Thanks, Austin."

I give her a hug. Then I read her a bedtime story, again. It's always the same one: Guess How Much I Love You. I cannot put into words how sick of it I am. Especially not in words I can say around Pixie. But now, gloriously, she is asleep.

Most nights I stay awake as long as I can, keeping watch, scanning the darkness for crazy-eyed junkies, cops, or anyone who might approach the van, anyone who'd try to hurt us or take Pixie away. I've opened both of the van's windows and taken off my shirt, but I'm still sweating and getting eaten alive by mosquitos. Those little assholes. They're always gone before I can smack them. My thumb caresses one dog-eared corner of the notebook in my lap. I had this idea to write in it every day to document our experiences in a line or two. It helps me stay sane in the relentless brutal heat.

"Keeping watch," I write in big, ugly letters. "Time: 3:40. In van. Made 50 today working at construcshun site. Pixie playd at park shes asleep now. Tomarow, shower day and stock up. Stole olaf. Gave berth to snoman."

"Austin?"

Pixie's awake. Her little voice reaches out to me from the back of the van. Great job, Olaf.

"I'm up here," I say, and I hear her crawling up the back, which might have once had seats, equipment, supplies or something, but now it's all gutted and acts as our bedroom.

She appears behind me now, clutching that stupid toy which is now also useless. I can't regret stealing it though, seeing how happy it made her.

"I can't sleep," she mumbles.

"Why not?" I ask with a sigh, pulling her onto my lap.

The journal falls to the floor and lands next to my metal baseball bat, our only weapon.

"I dreamed," she says.

As annoyed and exhausted as I am, I can't just put her back to bed now. I know what she dreamed about because her dreams are just a variation of my own. I don't have nightmares every night now, not like when I first got taken away from Mom and Ray. It's dwindled to about one every few weeks. Sometimes that number changes depending on my stress level, but I'd say I'm making progress in the whole PTSD department. She's not. She can't. She's just a little kid.

"When you're in a dream you can teach yourself to control things," I say. That's something Riley taught me a long time ago. It's called Lucid Dreaming, and it's saved me from many nights of horror.

"How?" she asks.

"Okay, so say that you're in a scary place. You can train yourself to realize you're dreaming, and then you can turn that scary place into... into..."

I'm rooting around for an idea because I don't think I should say what I do when my own nightmares turn lucid. It usually involves me murdering whoever is hurting me in the bloodiest, ugliest, most satisfying way possible. Hollywood has nothing on me. But luckily Pixie finishes my thought with something G-rated.

"A palace! A princess palace!"

"Yes, exactly. It's not what I would choose, but it's your dream. Plus, I'm a boy," I say with a smile.

She giggles. I live for that laugh.

"Can I stay up here with you?" she asks.

I'm torn. On the one hand I want her to sleep, which she won't do if she's alone in the back of the van and scared. On the other hand I don't want anyone to see her. And if we close the windows we will suffocate in this heat.

"Olaf will keep you safe back there," I try.

She shakes her head vigorously. "No, he's scared too. He wanted to come up here too."

I look at the toy's stupid, toothy grin. You asshole, I think.

"Uh..." I say, and she's pouting, her green eyes so shiny.

In a second she might be crying, but she doesn't even need to go that far. She's won. When it comes to Pixie, I'm a spineless glob of a pushover and we both know it.

"Okay. But if you fall asleep, I can put you back in bed."

"Okay deal," she says happily. "Just don't forget Olaf too."

She rests her head against my chest, and now I'm holding both her and the big Olaf plush so my arms are pretty stretched and I'm nowhere near comfortable. I probably won't be sleeping tonight, but that doesn't matter. This is what matters: staying alive, staying hidden, staying low until my eighteenth birthday. Eighteen is the magic number because it means I'm no longer a ward of the state, which means I can adopt Pixie, which means I can actually give her a life instead of a nightmare. That's the longterm plan. The short term plan is to get through the night.

Pixie is asleep now. Olaf is slipping out of her grip. I toss him over my shoulder and start to take her back to "bed", which is really just layers upon layers of blankets, sheets and a couple winter coats that we won't need for months. But when I move she whimpers, and I can't bring myself to get up. She sleeps so little these days. I'd be an asshole to wake her so I cover most of her face with my ratty quilt and huddle down low in the seat.

Sometimes when she's asleep like this I just watch her, trying to figure out what's going on in her little head. What does she think about? Will she be okay or is it too late? Has the damage already been done?

The parking lot is mostly deserted. I don't see any cops, and I'm starting to think maybe I can sleep. I kiss Pixie's forehead and close my eyes for a second, trying to drift off,  but every time I get close I freak out because someone's on top of me, and then I realize it's just Pixie and everything's okay.

This ebb and flow of terror and relief carries me through the rest of the night.