The next days are a fog. I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Ethan pushes food at me that he’s brought up from the cellar. The opened cans go uneaten. I close my eyes and my dreams are splashed with horrors. I open them and the horrors are the same, except awake I can feel pain.

When I’m awake, the guilt eats at my insides like acid. All of this is my fault. I went into town and pissed off the Warden. I led them back to our house. It doesn’t matter that I rescued Arn. He’d have been better off in jail than under six feet of dirt. And now my mama and Auntie are gone. They are likely dead or wishing they were. And Ethan? I get to watch him starve to death. When he brings me the meals that I keep refusing, I can’t look him in the face.

The only time I feel alive is when I think about revenge. I think of hurting the motherless bastards who did this. But mostly I think of Clay. I picture myself standing over his crumpled body and aiming my gun at his chest. I thought he was a good guy. He was just setting me up so they could follow me home and take everything. Why Ethan and I are still alive is a mystery, but I assume it’s a minor setback. He’ll be back to finish the job, and when he does, my hunting knife will find its last victim.

That night I have another nightmare. My mother cries in the distance. I run through the desert looking for her when something shakes me.

“Ri, wake up.”

I swim up out of the nightmare and open my eyes.

Ethan’s gaunt face hovers a foot from mine. His black hair hangs lank on either side. Seeing him like this brings the stab of pain to my chest. I roll away and face the wall.

“Let me sleep.”

He shakes me again. “Someone’s here.”

I sit up, heart pumping. “Who’s here?” I grab my hunting knife. When I stand, the room spins. God, I’m weak. I shake the dizziness away and let anger wake up my limbs. I stalk to the front room.

An engine grumbles outside. I blow through the front door and stride onto the porch. At my feet is a package wrapped in white paper. On the road I spot a leather-clad biker on a black motorcycle. The helmet’s face shield is down so I can’t tell who’s out there. The biker watches as I pick up the package.

There’s charcoal scrawl on the white paper. A peace offering—Clay

I drop the package, jump off the porch and run toward the motorcycle. The sand sears the bottoms of my feet as I tear toward the bike, but I barely feel it. I sprint with my hunting knife gripped in my fist. He watches for a moment, revs the engine and takes off. By the time I hit the road, he’s a cloud of dust in the distance. I pick up rocks and chuck them after him.