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

"The office is closed." He sounded like I had woken him up.

"Julius, it's Ellie. The gate's not working."

I heard rustling as if he was moving the phone to his other ear. "Ellie who?"

"Elias Dante. Space Twenty-Two."

Long pause.

"Julius, can you please open the gate? It's raining cats and dogs out here."

"No, I can't open the gate."

I glanced at Dad, ready to share a look of annoyance—but his expression had frozen. He looked scared, or maybe guilty. I frowned at him and spoke into the talk box again.

"Well, the keypad's not working. Is there a manual override or something?"

"No," Julius said. "I can't open the gate because you aren't residents here anymore. You haven't paid in months."

My mouth suddenly felt dry. "What? No," I said. "We're on autopay."

"Your card got declined three months in a row. Look, talk to your dad about this. I'm going back to sleep."

There was a click, and the speaker went silent. I looked at Dad, but he wouldn't meet my gaze. I felt a rush of nausea; he had known this was going to happen.

We climbed into the RV soaking wet and toweled off in silence. He hadn't paid our fucking rent in three months. I was so angry, my whole body was trembling. Why hadn't he told me? I considered asking him, but what was the point?

When we were back in our seats, Dad put the bus in gear and pulled onto the highway.

"Walmart?" I asked, trying to keep the contempt out of my voice. He nodded. "Okay. But let's go to the one on Twenty-Seven."

"Coldwater is closer."

"Dad, please."

"We need to conserve fuel."

"It's Friday night. People from Eastside will be hanging out at the one on Coldwater."

"We don't need to go inside."

I tried to sound calm. "What if they recognize the RV?"

"Ellie, we—"

"I don't want to see anybody right now!" My voice was a squeak.

Dad fell silent, gripping the wheel with both hands. Finally, he said, "All right." It was almost a whisper.

When we reached State Route 27, Dad turned south, but it didn't ease the tension in my chest. I looked over at him. His grip on the wheel was white knuckled.

"How bad is it?" I asked.

"Well. The cards are maxed, obviously."

I blew out a breath.

"But we still have cash."

"How much?"

He hesitated. "About four hundred dollars."

"But that's—I thought the gig tonight was supposed to pay eight?"

Dad stiffened. "They called back after the initial booking, and I ... I had to renegotiate."

"You can't just do that!" I said, my fists tight and white. "It lowers our quote for the next one!"

"No one will find out."

"Yes, they will!" I was shouting at him now. "People talk! On Facebook, on Yelp. Once you drop your price, it's impossible to raise it again. We've talked about this!" Dad said nothing, only adjusted his grip on the wheel and stared out into the storm. "I was going to use some of that eight hundred for Facebook ads! I haven't placed one in months. We're ..." My voice had risen to a shriek. "How will we get gas? How will we buy groceries? You just—"

"We still have half a tank of diesel."

I wanted to cry. To scream. Instead, I closed my eyes and put my head back against the headrest. A heaviness threatened to settle in on me. I sank into the seat and let it.

"An opportunity will present itself," Dad said. "It always does."

I didn't respond, just turned to stare out at the flat Indiana darkness and tried to hope he was right.

After a long time, Dad cleared his throat. It was one of his tells; it meant he was about to broach a tender subject.

"Are you feeling all right, Ellie?"

"I'm fine."

"It's just ... Your moods have been a bit darker lately. I wonder—"

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.