He smiles faintly. “Thought you could use the rest.” His eyes trace down my body. I’m dressed in his simple faded jeans, a cotton t-shirt. “You look … well rested,” he says, a blush running up his cheeks.

His blush sends a fire to my cheeks. I shake my head and focus on the question I have to ask. “Clay about last night. There’s something I—”

“Lunch is on,” he says loudly, his eyes tracing down the hallway as if someone’s listening. “Figured you’d like to join us.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. So it’s not safe to talk. He leads me down the warped hallway, stepping past a hole where the floor has sunken in. Just before we come into full view of the others, Clay’s hand seeks out mine. The soft pads of his fingers trace the skin of my palm. My heart pounds, but as quick as it came, the touch is gone. He strides toward the fire pit, calling to Ethan. I cup my tingling hand to my chest and step into the sunshine.

Ethan’s perched on a log, his cheeks stuffed like a squirrel’s, a half-eaten chicken leg clutched in his hand. Hatch sits on the dry grass with a hunk of chicken in his hands. Grease runs from the corners of his mouth, down his thick neck. He wipes an oily hand on the bib of his dirt-streaked overalls. As I sit next to Ethan, Hatch’s eyes track me.

Clay crouches over the skillet and plucks off hunks of crispy chicken meat—a little burnt, but smelling delicious. He makes a plate with the chicken, a fat brown roll and a jug of milk. When I take a drink, the milk is warm and fresh. I stare up at him in wonder.

He smiles. “Pa got it in town. We like to eat good even on the road.”

I look around for the Sheriff, but he’s missing from our circle. I nod toward the ruts in the driveway where the van was parked. “Where’d he go?”

Clay looks at me and then slips a glance at Hatch. Hatch keeps his eyes on the chicken skin he’s peeling and eating in big greasy bites.

“He’s getting supplies for the ride home,” Clay says.

“Oh,” I say, feeling stung. “Are we going home?” My voice wavers like I can’t seem to figure out what it should sound like.

He takes a bite of his bread roll, chews carefully. “Soon’s you feel up to it.”

My eyes slip to Hatch. “I feel fine.”

My mama, on the other hand, does not feel fine. She doesn’t get to eat chicken. She’ll take the rest of her meals, however many she has left, through a tube in her arm. I picture her sunken face and a cold shiver passes over me.