One day after she found me sitting on the front stoop, watching girls jumping rope in the yard next door, she tied me to the fridge then went and bought a thick chain and screwed a heavy bolt into the sofa. She padlocked the chain around my waist.
An hour later I smashed the lumpy green couch to smithereens, dragging it behind me, trying to freeze-frame through the doorway to the kitchen.
She stood at the kitchen counter making dinner and I giggled and giggled because I thought it was so funny to see the couch all crooked and skewed with the stuffing poking out, but she got angry and said things I never wanted to hear her say again so, for a while that felt like years to me but was probably weeks, I stayed wherever she put me until she told me I could move.
It was inevitable OUTSIDE would get me again; sneaking a peek behind the curtains, spying an ice cream vendor pushing his cart with dozens of children crowded around, licking their cones and spooning up their gooey sundaes and allowed to be OUTSIDE, and I knocked them over like little bowling pins, snatched up a whole tub of chocolate fudge caramel for myself and was back inside the house before Mom even knew I was gone. All the vendor saw was kids falling all over the sidewalk and maybe noticed a tub of ice cream missing but I’d already figured out that when grown-ups couldn’t explain something, they pretended it hadn’t happened.
I almost got away with it.
I would have gotten away with it. I even had a plan for how to get rid of the empty tub.
She brought my lunch into the living room.
I shoved the tub of ice cream behind a chair but she stayed and talked to me while I ate my beans and the ice cream melted and puddled out and she said those angry things again and I cried so hard I thought my tummy would split.
I crossed-my-heart-hope-to-die swore I would never disobey her rules again. And most especially that I would never, never go OUTSIDE.
She cried then, too.
A few days later she came home from the grocery store with hardly any food but she had a bunch of tools and bars and sheets of metal. She told me we didn’t have any more money and she’d sold everything we could sell, so she had to go back to work.
She was getting a dog to watch over me while she was out and she was going to build a very special cage for it. She’d even learned to use a blowtorch and hammer to do it. I thought she was terribly clever and exciting!
I knew it was going to be a very special big dog because the cage was ginormous. I knew why she had to build it inside: it was three times as wide as any of our doors! Shortly before it was done, I played inside the cage, imagining all the fun I was going to have with my new, very best friend. With a best friend it would be a lot easier to resist the lure of OUTSIDE.
I wasn’t as strong then as I am now. My strength increased as I matured, along with my other senses. But I knew the dog we were getting was going to be very, very strong because the bars on the cage were as big around as my mother’s arm and inside she bolted a thick collar and a heavy chain to the floor. She said the dog might have to be restrained sometimes when we had company.
We never had company.
I began to think I was the only one excited about the new addition to our family. While she worked on the cage, I’d dream up names for our dog and try them out on her, and her eyes would get strange and her lips would pull down.
I’ve always slept hard.
One night my mother gave me a bath, dried and brushed my hair, and we played games on the rickety kitchen table until I nearly fell asleep on my stool. Then she carried me to her bed where I lay my head on her pillowcase—the one with the little ducks—and I put my hands on her face and stared at her with sleepy eyes because I loved watching her while I fell asleep, and she held me so close and so tight, snuggled up in her good mom-smell that I knew I was the most important thing to her in the whole world, and I slipped off to happy dreams.
The next morning I woke up with a collar around my neck, chained on a small mattress inside the dog’s cage.
JADA
She stood by the edge of the mattress in the study on the silent, otherwise empty first floor of Barrons Books & Baubles, frowning down at the body draped in nearly transparent pieces of silvery cloth.
Not that Ryodan knew she was frowning or even that she was in the room. Although his body shivered with agony, the rise and fall of his chest was nominal; she’d counted his breaths, twice a minute. His pulse was nonexistent. He’d either gone into a deep meditation or someone, no doubt Barrons, had put him into a magical, healing sleep.
Unwrapping a protein bar, she knelt by the mattress, lifted the edge of one of the pieces of fabric and inhaled sharply. Raw, blistered flesh oozed pinkish liquid. She carefully released the edge and lifted another.