I find the room a few doors down. This quiet little nook must’ve been the church’s small library—stacks of yellow books lie in piles where they’ve spilled out of the tilted shelves. I push them out of the way. A book called The Fiddler loses its binding and cracks in my hands. The pages flutter out like tattered moth wings. The Heaven Answer Book must’ve had better glue because it stays intact. I turn the crackling book over in my hands. Maybe I’ll try to read it if I have time. I could use some answers. Like why Betsy and not me? And what will happen to my mama if she dies? I set the books down and make a cozy nest for my mother. Then I walk back out to the van and help carry her in.

Rayburn and I settle her on the cushions. They smell faintly of bird droppings but it’s the best I can do. I lay her veined hands over her stomach. She looks lovely with the dim afternoon light filtering in through the cobwebbed windows. Her burned face is set as in a peaceful slumber. Suddenly I have a vision of her inside one of the plushy coffins from before things fell apart. I shake the image away.

“Mama,” I whisper, pushing a few strands off the burned part of her face. “Wake up,” I say, running my thumb over her hand. “Ethan needs you.” I choke back a sob. “I need you.”

When she doesn’t stir, I set her hand down and limp out to the van to help bring in Clay. I find Ethan and Rayburn hauling him out. In the sunlight, Clay’s face looks like the pages of the books in there, pale, worn and fragile. There are large grayish circles under his eyes. The apples of his cheeks flare bright red in the white of his face. His eyes flutter open and he groans as they ease him into the small sanctuary. In one corner I’ve made a bed for him out of pew cushions. As they settle him onto the cushions, puffs of dust swirl through the triangles of light streaming in from the ceiling. Rayburn and Ethan go back to the van for supplies. I sit beside Clay and tuck the cushions around him.

Clay’s eyes flutter as he reaches for me with his good hand. His bandaged right hand lies lifelessly on his chest. I’m too afraid to look at what’s underneath. Will he ever draw from the hip again?

He runs the back of his hand over the bruise where his father hit me. I lean down and touch my lips to his parched ones.

He gives a delightful moan. “Is that all I get?” His voice is gravely and weak. “No sugar after I shot our way out?”