MacKenzie
The walk from Leo’s truck to the trailer was like stepping into a different century. One minute I was surrounded by the scent of bourbon-maple glaze and the hum of industrial ovens; the next, I was trudging through slush toward a lopsided pre-fab that smelled of stale beer and regret.
I let myself in quietly. The TV was on, a low-volume static of some late-night talk show. My dad was slumped in the recliner, his head back, an empty beer can resting on his chest like a hollow trophy.
I set the box of "ugly" donuts on the small kitchen table. I hated the term ugly. They tasted the same. They were just... different.
The floorboard creaked under my canvas sneakers, and his eyes fluttered open. For a second, he looked confused, like he didn’t recognize the girl in the black hoodie
