She told herself she wouldn’t be so scared if she was by herself. She was fourteen, and she was smart, the smartest kid in her class, although she made sure none of those losers she went to school with knew about that. A few of the teachers had figured it out, and some of them made Lucy come up to their desks after class to talk about how she should apply herself and crap like that. But with a mother like Sandy, and never having any money, and moving from one ugly, run-down house to another, Lucy already felt like a freak. She didn’t need everybody knowing she had a smart brain, too.

Except her smart brain hadn’t figured out how she was going to take care of Button. Right after Sandy’d died, she’d cashed her mother’s last paycheck and used it to pay the rent and phone and stuff. Then she’d started baby-sitting one of the little kids in the neighborhood while his mom went to work. She’d been doing okay until that lawyer had found her.

If it was just her, she’d run away to New York City or someplace like Hollywood, and get a job and make a whole lot of money. But she couldn’t do that and take care of Button, too.

Right now, she only knew one thing. She had to be tough. That was about the only good thing Sandy had ever taught her. When somebody gets in your face, just spit right in their eye. If you don’t stand up for yourself, nobody else is going to do it.

So that’s what she was doing. Being tough, standing up for herself, and trying to slow down this trip while she figured out how to take care of her baby sister.

Button started sucking on Lucy’s neck. She did that sometimes when Lucy hugged her, and it made Lucy’s stomach hurt so bad she wanted to start crying again because she knew Button couldn’t tell the difference between her sister and a grown-up. Even worse, she knew Button didn’t understand that Lucy wasn’t her mom.

It had come to this, Nealy thought. The First Lady of the United States was traveling toward the heartland with a drunk, a teenage hellion, a baby she was terrified to touch, and an unborn Wal-Mart pillow.

“Where the hell are we?” Mat’s big, booming voice bounced off the walls of the Winnebago.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw him uncoiling from the couch like a bear coming out of hibernation. Except he looked more like a gorgeous, rumpled pirate with his unkempt hair, wrinkled black T-shirt, and jaw covered in dark stubble.

“West Virginia.”

He levered himself up, winced, and rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. “I know that. Where in West Virginia?”