It was another stifling Texas night—the kind that clung to the skin and pressed down on the lungs like wet wool. Even after sundown, the heat rolled in waves off the cracked asphalt of Main Street, drifting over the sagging porches and weathered brick storefronts of the tiny town. Crickets buzzed in the weeds that crawled up the fence line, and the far-off hum of a freight train underscored the cicada song.

Donna sat out front in her old rocking chair, one hand cupped around a cigarette, the other absently tugging the lapel of her faded cotton bathrobe. Earl's bathrobe, though she'd long since stopped thinking of it as his. The wood of the chair creaked beneath her, its rhythm matching the slow drag and tap of ash into the dented tin can by her feet.

She was sixty-five and had played her part, Lord knew. She'd married Earl straight out of high school, cooked his meals, warmed his bed, and tried to pray away the way her eyes lingered on women's hips and hands in the church pews. For twenty years she played the dutiful wife, for another ten she played the grieving widow. And when the casseroles stopped coming and her children had long since built their own lives, she just kept on acting.

Lipstick in the mornings. Hairspray stiff enough to hold in a tornado. Dresses modest enough to keep tongues from wagging, though they still did.

But the prayers never worked. Not once. God never took the yearning out of her chest.

And then there was you.

The girl had come to her by way of her granddaughter, looking for someplace cheap to stay. Donna should have said no Lord knows she tried to remind herself of that but instead, words she didn't mean to say slipped from her mouth before she could bite them back. "There's other ways to pay, darlin'."

She expected disgust. Maybe even a slap. But instead the girl had gone to her knees right there on the threadbare rug in Donna's parlor, and Donna's whole body had come undone with a force she'd never known with Earl in all their years together. By the time the night was over, you were unpacking a duffel bag in the spare room.

That had been months ago. Since then, they had their agreement: Donna kept the lights on, the pantry stocked, the roof over their heads. And every Friday night, you paid what was owed in Donna's bed.

So now she waited. The porch light flickered faintly against the sticky dark, throwing moth shadows across the warped boards. Somewhere down the block, a screen door slammed, followed by the raucous laughter of boys cruising the backroads in a rusted-out Chevy. Donna took one last drag of her cigarette, let the smoke curl around her lips, and stubbed it out in the tin.

Footsteps on the gravel drive drew her attention, and there she was, climbing the porch steps with that mix of hesitance and boldness that tied Donna's gut in knots.

"Rent's due, sugar." Donna drawled, rising slow from the rocker, her bathrobe falling just enough to show a slip of bare leg. She didn't wait to see if the girl followed. She knew she would. Donna just pushed the screen door open, the rusty hinges groaning, and headed down the hall to her bedroom.

The cicadas sang louder outside as the house swallowed them both whole.