When I was little I’d sit by my mama’s feet and unwind yarn while she knitted. I used to spend hours unknotting those coarse colored threads. My little fingers would pick at the knots until the tangles gave way. Despite the boredom, despite my sore fingers, I’d give anything to be back there again.

Alone in the mildewed room, I track down the shifting threads of my thoughts and unknot slowly. The facts are these. My mother has been sedated and is being used as a human incubator. Something bad is going to happen to her in two days. The Sheriff refuses to help because if he angers the Breeders, he might lose his kingdom. Plus, he probably couldn’t care less. Clay gave in to this father when he said to drop it. Without Clay, our chances are slim.

Fact, says my petulant brain, you won’t want to leave Clay behind if that’s what it takes.

A pain shoots up my chest at this thought. I replay that moment with Clay again and again. The sweetness of the liquor on his breath as he stepped towards me. The touch of his hand on my wrist, hot like the fire that burned in the barrel behind us. I catch myself listening for his voice down the hall, for the tread of his feet on the gravel outside. But, he’s the Sheriff’s right hand man. Will he help?

I curl my knees under me and stare out the window where I can just see the top of a neighboring roof. Many of the semi-circular terracotta tiles have cracked and fallen away. A small, brown bird lands there for a moment and then ducks down into a hole in the tile where he’s made his nest. I watch him settle in, feeling a wave of homesickness so raw I have to fight back tears. I wanna fly home, tuck myself in a warm snug place and fold my head under my wing. Then I think of Mama in that awful room. Whatever “get rid of” means, I can’t let that happen.

I take a deep breath and tick off the plan. We’ll have to get away from the Sheriff and get back to the hospital somehow. Once there, we’ll need a way in. And we need Clay. I’ll have to get him alone to find out his plan for Mama. And if he won’t help? I wrap my hands around myself. Let’s hope it won’t come to that.

He shows up at my door for lunch in dusty jeans and boots. His sweaty t-shirt clings to the muscles of his arms and chest. He wipes a hankie across the back of his neck. “You up then?”

I gesture toward the noon sunshine streaming in my open window. “It’s the middle of the day. I’ll go bananas if somebody doesn’t give me something to do.”