40 The Meadow The thought of more than one roach sent a chill down her spine. She was grateful for this group, too. Until she started coming, everything that had happened to her had felt like some sort of sick inside joke. But there were others who suffered. And for that, Grete was thankful. A young guy broke the quiet. “I get it. I hear ya. My girlfriend Jessica—” he held up a photo of a beautiful girl standing on the beach, “—this is her before. She’s a wasp. A fucking wasp. Of course, I still love her, but she flies at me all the time and if she stings me, that’s it. She’s getting the fucking swatter.” He clapped his hands loudly, and Grete jumped in her seat. “I know what you all must be thinking, but I’m allergic and she knows it. I’m scared out of my damned mind. Scared of my girl who I loved.” The black man spoke, his voice measured, and Grete thought he sounded like Morgan Freeman. “My lady is a tick. Last week, I looked everywhere for her. All over the house, tore the place apart. Guess where I found her? On me. Never mind where. Not important. What could I do to remove her from my…self? I couldn’t take a match to her; I’d killed her. My sweetheart. I got some tweezers, careful not to squeeze her too hard, ya know? And I plucked her off my…well, I got her off of me.” His body shook with the memory. “She’d been on a while so, ya know, she was full of blood. Doctor says I might have Lyme disease now. What do I do, y’all? She’ll be back. I know it.” He dusted some powdered sugar from his jeans. Grete was beginning to feel better about her home situation. Gregor was a roach and so far, the worst thing he’d done was crawl across a photo, leaving an iridescent trail of some kind, and while he hadn’t eaten his bread or milk, he’d finished most of the rotted cheese she’d set out for him. She wasn’t one to share, but she needed to get this off her chest, hear herself say the words out loud about the brother she’d loved. About her fears. Maybe if she gave voice to them, got them out into
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