The Pickle

In the dim haze of a suburban kitchen, shadows cling to 18-year-old Jenny as she slouches against the counter, arms folded tight, watching her parents scramble for the door. Dad barks the rules—no pals, no dudes, just solitary silence till midnight. Jenny's eyes roll skyward, snapping she's eighteen, damn well able to handle the empty nest. Mom pulls her into a smothering hug, whispering to ring big brother if shit hits the fan. Jenny mutters 'step-brother' like a curse under her breath. They bail, and her plastered grin twists into a wicked leer the second the lock clicks. She saunters to the fridge, yanking out a thick cucumber, crisp carrot bunch, and that briny pickle jar. Fingers trace their rigid forms, hunger sparking in her gaze—she snags a fat carrot, lips parting in a bitten-back gasp. Clutching the haul like contraband, she slinks to her room, door slamming shut with finality. Across town, in the smoky murk of a dive bar, Gary nurses a drink with his sidekick when his phone erupts—Jenny's number flashing like a siren. He brushes it off at first, but her relentless buzz forces him to step away, voice low as he picks up. She's a wreck, sobs choking the line, pleading for him to race home—family crisis, life or death. Gary's gut twists, probing for details amid her frenzy, but panic wins; he mutters he'll come, hanging up with dread coiling tight.