Chapter 3
Haley
An hour bus ride to my uncle’s, forty minutes waiting for Dad’s prescription and, as I walk out of the pharmacy, I still haven’t thought of a witty enough comeback for when Jax looks at me from across the dinner table and mouths John’s last word to me: “Runner.”
“Am not” won’t do the job.
Especially since Jax will ignore his actual age of seventeen and revel in his maturity level of six with the response of, “Are too.”
Short of kicking him in the balls from underneath the table, there’s no way to win once someone says, “Are too.” Besides, Jax has learned to cover himself when he sits across from me.
On top of it all, I’ve been rejected by the University of Notre Dame. My eyes sting and I blink. I could say it’s the wind burning my eyes, but that’s a lie. I’m awesome at lying to everyone else but have yet to perfect lying to myself.
Trying to ignore the cold, I shove my hands in my jeans pockets and weave through the crowd huddled underneath the covered sidewalk. The plastic bags from the pharmacy and grocery store crackle as they swing from my wrist. Between the darkness of the winter night and the faces buried under hats and coats, the people I pass become nothing more than expressionless ghosts.
The sun set a half hour ago and I’ve got a little less than fifteen minutes till curfew. The Dictator is strict about the comings and goings of anyone living in his household.
We’re having squirrel tonight for dinner.
Squirrel.
As in the rodent with the fuzzy tail that gets zapped on power lines.
Squirrel.
And it’s my turn to say grace. On top of not securing a comeback, I’ve also failed to find a way to thank God for the bounty that is squirrel. I’m sure, “Dear God, thank you for the fuzzy rat you gave us to eat and please don’t let me die of the plague after I digest it. Is that gristle? Amen,” will meet my uncle’s approval.
With ten people in one two-bedroom house, there are bound to be some personality clashes or, in my and my uncle’s case, a revisit of the Cold War. Actually, Russia and the U.S. liked each other a tiny bit more. He has a problem with girls who think, and I’m a fan of using my brain.
The moment I round the corner of the strip mall, two hulking silhouettes emerge from behind the back of the building. More male muscle reeking of ominous threat than friendly passerby. Instincts flare. Senses go on alert. I wouldn’t be the first girl jumped in this neighborhood.
I freeze and glance over my shoulder. Behind me, the ghosts fade into the stores, leaving me alone and with limited options. Going forward forces me to pass the two shadows, but it’s also the lone path into the neighborhood. Heading back toward the shops will make me late, and I promised Mom I’d never break curfew. My breath billows out in a cloud, a reminder that sleeping outside can mean frostbite.
Six months ago, I would have met the shadowy threat with no fear. In fact, I probably would have taunted them, but being hit until you break causes courage to disappear.
“I don’t have any money,” I call out. It’s not a lie.
A voice carries from the dark blobs. “Just give us the pills.”
My head shakes back and forth. Mom saved for two months to buy this medication. We lost our insurance. We’ve lost everything and Dad’s suffering. We’ve all been suffering. And Dad needs to get better. He needs to find a job. We have to get out of this awful place.
The shadows descend and I stumble backward off the curb. My heart pounds as I free my hands from my pockets and the bags slide farther up my wrist. It’s not my hands that I’m lethal with. It’s my legs. My feet. I’ve been trained to kick. The instinct to run battles my instinct to fight.
A horn blares. My head jerks to the right. Lights blind me. My hand flies to my face to act as a shield as my stomach shoots up. A scream tears out of my throat.