A camouflage green Honda SUV is parked in the only occupied space in its row near the end of the parking lot. It’s the family car. The driver’s seat is burdened with emptiness, the vinyl cushions and backing wrinkling from lack of weight. The vehicle’s headlights glint up at birds swooping threateningly above. The engine under the hood is cold. The radio station is set on silence.
It’s a loud, constant, screaming silence. It’s the kind that rings and echoes around in your head. The locked doors trap the sound in, making the ringing even louder. I cower in the back seat, trying to hide from my tinnitus. I fight it, but it’s impossible to ward off. I cannot run. I cannot hide. All I can do is listen.
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