Page 17

“She works at the store,” I say quietly.

“At the store,” he mimics cruelly.

Wade then yanks a stained shirt from a chair and pulls it over his head, revealing something bulky tucked into his waistband.

“Go put on real clothes,” he orders. “You’re coming with me.”

My knees weaken. “What? Where?”

He pulls the shirt down. “Shit, boy, since when do I answer to you?”

“I just need to know how long—”

“Not long.”

Mom stubs out her cigarette, sending a trail of ash across the table. “Why are you taking him?” she asks.

Wade glances at her. “I need him to carry something. ‘Bout time he starts pulling his weight around here.”

“Um…” I wring my fingers together in front of me, trying to desperately come up with an excuse he’ll actually listen to.

“Go get dressed,” Wade orders.

I look at Mom, a stupid hope rising in me that she might say no. But she won’t. She never has.

She lowers her gaze. “You heard him.”

2

Kamden

The passenger-side door doesn’t open from the inside.

I discover this six minutes after Wade pulls away from the house, when he blows through a yellow light that turns red just before we reach the intersection and narrowly misses the front bumper of a delivery truck. My hand closes around the handle on instinct, fingers fumbling for something solid while the truck’s horn blares behind us, but the loose piece of plastic only lifts uselessly beneath my palm.

The lock doesn’t move. Neither does the handle.

Wade glances at me and laughs. “Relax. He stopped, didn’t he?”

I stare at the delivery truck shrinking in the side mirror, my heart pounding hard for what almost happened, and press my hands between my knees so he won’t see them shaking.

He turns his attention back to the road and takes another long drink from the energy drink wedged between his thighs.

Rain drags thin, crooked lines across the windshield, and the wipers squeal every time they pass, smearing the water rather than clearing it. The sky outside is ugly and colorless.

For the next few minutes, Wade doesn’t say a word; he just drives. The old pickup lurches and bucks over the slick pavement, weaving around slower cars and speeding toward red lights, as though shaving off three seconds is absolutely imperative.

Each time he slams on the brakes, something rolls beneath my seat, knocking against the metal frame. A bottle, maybe; I don’t lean down to check.

The cab reeks of stale cigarettes, congealed fast-food grease, and that sour, unshakable body odor that clings to Wade.

Four faded cardboard air fresheners dangle from the rearview mirror, but they’ve long since lost any scent, leaving only the dust gathering on their edges. My backpack sits on the floor between my feet, holding my work shirt, a protein bar, my phone charger, and the small notebook I carry when I don’t want to haul my sketchbook around.

Wade glances at me, his gaze flicking over my stretched sweatshirt, my rumpled jeans, and the way I press my knees together.

“You always sit like that?” he asks, his mouth twisting in disdain.

My stomach clenches. I know better than to ask what he means. “Sorry,” I murmur.