Excerpt from The Lightness of Hands by Jeff Garvin, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Forgive me if I'm having trouble adjusting to being homeless."

The words flew out like spit, and I couldn't take them back. Dad was silent for the rest of the ride.

By the time we parked in the far corner of the Walmart lot, the rain had stopped. Dad cut the engine and hit the switch to expand the RV's pop-outs. I watched as our narrow living room widened by two feet on each side. Once, the extra space had felt luxurious. Now it just felt like a bigger coffin. While I went in back to wash my face, Dad folded out the couch and closed his eyes.

I lay awake in bed, staring at the sagging fabric on the ceiling, the chorus of that goddamned Rihanna song playing over and over in my head. Sometimes it was like Dad was the child and I was the parent. Except I didn't get to make any decisions; I just had to bear the consequences. He danced through life, chasing his dream of performing, never realizing the cost to the people around him. The cost to me.

I turned over and buried my face in the pillow. He'd said my moods had been darker lately, and he was right. Was I being too hard on him? Maybe the encroaching gray was distorting my perceptions, making everything seem worse than it was. But we'd just been evicted; how could it get worse than that?

Still, my conscience nagged. I hated this feeling, hated never knowing if I was right or if I was just being crazy. Maybe I shouldn't have snapped at Dad. Maybe he had just been trying to protect me from bad news. And if he'd told me we were behind on rent, was there anything I could've done about it? I didn't know. But we only had each other now, and we couldn't afford to fight.

Reluctantly, I got up and opened the accordion door, thinking I might apologize, or at least try to make peace—but the old man was passed out, snoring like a lumberjack. I guessed I couldn't have hurt his feelings too badly.

The rain had stopped, so I pulled on a hoodie, snagged two hundred-dollar bills from the cash box under the driver's seat, and stepped out into the cool October air.

I had practically grown up at Walmart. Most locations allowed RV parking, and I'd spent the night in hundreds of them from San Diego to Hartford. At night, every Walmart parking lot looked the same—an asphalt sea illuminated by moth-riddled, flickering arc sodiums mounted high on corroding masts. And, as you neared the building, the windows glowed with an eerie fluorescence like something from a horror movie. On this particular occasion, the effect was amplified by the garish display of Halloween decorations in the window: fake spiderwebs, black and orange streamers, a toilet-paper mummy.

I grabbed a cart and headed for the canned-food aisle. Tuna. Peas. Fruit cocktail. I wanted to load up on fresh fruit and leafy greens for Dad's heart—but they wouldn't keep, and I wasn't sure how long this food would have to last. On the pet aisle, I threw in a bag of birdseed for the doves. I hit the dry-goods section and grabbed a box of spaghetti, two pounds of coffee, and a canister of generic instant oats. I found the magical bread Liam had used for the ultimate PB&J, but it cost six dollars a loaf, so I settled for the store brand instead. I did splurge on fancy peanut butter, though. I would probably regret it.

On my way toward the front of the store, I passed a guy wearing three sweatshirts and a filthy beanie. He reeked like old shoes and muttered to himself as he shuffled down the aisle. Walmart at two a.m. contains no moms with infants or dads towing toddlers; it's mostly the poor and the homeless, and I guessed I belonged with them. The realization weighed on me like a lead X-ray vest. Would I ever have a normal life? Shop at a normal store with a credit card and buy whatever I wanted?

I found the prepaid phone kiosk and reached for a ten-dollar card but hesitated with my hand halfway to the rack. My account was completely empty—the prank caller had burned up my last minute. Also, we had zero bookings on the horizon, so I didn't know when we'd get paid again. Should I spend the money now, or save it for food and diesel? I considered: recharge cards had to be activated at the register, so they couldn't be stolen, whereas gas and groceries could.

Excerpted from The Lightness of Hands by Tim Garvin. Copyright © 2020 by Tim Garvin. Excerpted by permission of Balzer + Bray. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.