I smile wanly. “You’ll get plenty of sugar when you’re better.” I brush the sweaty clumps of hair out of his eyes. His lids flutter again. He swims out of sleep and his face tightens in pain.

I start to stand. “I’ll get you some of Rayburn’s magic pills,” I say. “Thank god for those supplies Betsy got us.”

And there it is, the wave of pain that punches me in the stomach every time I think about Betsy. I haven’t slept since the hospital. When I do, I know I’ll see her face as those guards closed in like piranhas on a chunk of meat. Her terrified eyes greet me from every darkened doorway. Her cries echo from every quiet corner.

I jump as Clay’s hand closes over mine. I offer a weak smile.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “Nothing you could do to save her.”

“Nothing?” I ask. I picture Betsy’s face. I’ve spent the hours since going over every detail. If I’d had Clay’s feet instead. If I’d been a second quicker. If I’d jumped out of the truck instead of hesitating. There were lots of things I could’ve done.

“Stop torturing yourself.” He reaches for me again, but this time I don’t fall into his arms. I like torturing myself. Maybe someday I’ll stop, but not today.

“Riley!” Ethan’s shrill voice calls from down the hall. I snap my head around.

“Go,” Clay says, his eyes wide with fear.

I bolt from the sanctuary into the little library where we’ve tucked my mother. I scramble to a stop, knocking over a pile of books, sending up a cloud of dust.

“What?” I ask, stepping over the books to get to Ethan. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he moves aside.

Mama’s eyes are open. “Riley?” she asks.

For weeks, I’d been racking my brain to remember the color of Mama’s eyes. I remembered they were brown like mine, but what shade? Chocolate? Mocha? Coffee? Where there flecks in the center? How did they look when they fell on me? How did I feel at that moment when my mother saw me and liked what she saw?

I kneel down, my trembling hand reaching for hers. Her cracked lips draw up in a smile. “Baby,” she whispers.

I look into my mother’s deep brown eyes. Now I remember.

* * *

In the light of an electric torch, I lean over Clay’s sweat-flecked face as Rayburn readies the scalpel over Clay’s exposed thigh. I look into Clay’s eyes.

“Are you ready?” I whisper. I offer a leather bible cover. Clay folds it in half and nods. His face tightens, sweat streaming down in rivulets. He places the cover in his mouth and bites down.