“As it should be.”

“But you….”

I see what he’s saying. You’re not routine. You mess things up. You break everything, and I can’t have you here. I can’t. It’s getting harder to breathe. “I… I d-don’t w-w-want—” Stop stuttering!

“You fit,” he says simply. “Somehow, you fit.”

In. Hold for three seconds. Out. Hold for three seconds.

“Even after all this time,” he says, “somehow, some way, you fit. Like it’s nothing at all.” He shakes his head.

And steps aside.

I take the chance I’ve been given. I can’t let him see me break. Not him. Not now. I rush toward the doorway. I’m barely past him when he reaches out again and circles my wrist, holding it tight. It’s now or never. The words almost don’t come out. “I’m sorry too,” I gasp. “This whole… everything. I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean for this to happen. Any of it.” I struggle, trying to get away. I’ve said it, said what I’ve needed to, and I need to leave. Now.

Dom bends down and presses his forehead against my cheek, his mouth near my ear. “That’s a start,” he growls in a voice that zings right through me. “But you should know, Tyson, that if you try to run again, I will find you. That’s a promise. This bullshit is over. You’d do well to remember that.”

He lets me go, and I blindly run away, away, away.

15. Where Tyson Remembers Theresa Jean Paquinn

AS I run, his words echoing in my ears, I think of Mrs. P.

I was five years old when we first met. It was early afternoon, and I sat outside our shitty apartment on a ratty lawn chair trying to read a book, waiting for Bear to get home. He was in high school, approaching the end, and more and more, all I could think about was how soon he would be gone and it would just be me and Mom left here in this place. I was too smart for my age (as I’ve always been), and coupled with an overactive imagination, I was sure it’d be the end of me with my brother gone. I was trying to devise a way to convince Bear to take me with him. I’d keep out of your way! I thought I’d tell him. I’d even sleep under your bed. Just please don’t leave me here alone. Please don’t leave me behind.

The door to our apartment opened and my mother poked her head out, a cigarette dangling from her lips. “What are you doing?” she asked as if it wasn’t plainly obvious.

“Reading,” I said, showing her the book.

“You were reading all morning,” she said, blowing out smoke. Her eyes were red-rimmed and gummy. “That’s what your teacher told me.”

“I like reading,” I mumbled. Other kids in my kindergarten class made fun of me for having a book all the time. I didn’t see what the big deal was.

“You didn’t get that from me,” she said.