“No.” My voice is slick with hatred. “Get off my steps before I make you.” My words sound strong, but my arms feel like limp noodles. If I have to fight Clay now, it’ll go poorly. I don’t care. I’ll die before I’ll let him hurt Ethan.

He wrinkles his blue eyes as if weighing his words. “Really,” he says. “I can help.”

“Help what?” I’m stalling. My eyes skim our dusty yard for an exit, an answer, something. “Help capture us?” Ethan moans and more blood runs from his arm onto his shirt. I have to get him inside. Now.

“Listen,” he says, looking at me sheepishly, one thumb hooked in his belt loop, “I’m not here to take you in. When I locked you in the cellar, I was trying to keep you from getting shot up.”

He offers that smile now, one he’s probably given his parents a million times to say, Trust this face. Would I lie? I don’t care how charming he is. All I can see is an image of Arn’s body drug out for the coyotes.

“My parents and Auntie are dead because of you.” I feel my pocketknife pressing against my thigh, waiting for me.

Clay’s forehead furrows and he turns his eyes away. When he looks at me again, his voice is almost too quiet to hear. “Your ma and auntie aren’t dead.”

Suddenly the world feels smaller, heavier. “What’d you say?”

He blows out a breath. “They ain’t dead. We … they took ’em into custody. Nothing I could do.”

Not dead. My mother and Auntie Bell aren’t dead. But what’s happening to them? Were they sold to the Breeders? The thought of them going back there feels like an iron fist around my insides.

Clay takes a few steps sideways. He takes his hat off and tucks it to his chest, a cowboy’s act of contrition if I ever saw it. Then he nods down at Ethan’s arm. “He needs disinfectant or that’ll fester. Coyot’ bites are nasty.”

“I know that,” I say, taking a few steps toward our back door. I walk slowly past him, never taking my eyes away.

He gestures toward the bike sitting in our driveway with his hat. “Got a first aid kit on the bike. It’s not much, but I got antiseptic and bandages.” He brings his hat back to his chest and smiles.

Arn in the dirt, left to die.

“We don’t need your help.” I run up the steps and lock the door behind me.

* * *

Ethan’s arm worsens.

I wash the wound with water, but it’s not enough. The four slashes, deep bloody valleys with peaks of shredded skin, swell and puss. While Ethan moans and rocks on the bed, I scour the house for soap, disinfectant, anything. I pull apart every cupboard and closet. I come up empty handed.

In the barn I knock over empty gas cans, dig through drawers and fling empty bottles from shelves. I find nothing but fat centipedes and oily rags. My heart won’t stop thudding in my chest. What if there’s nothing? Desperate tears threaten, but I dig my fingernails into my palms and keep searching. I gotta find something. I gotta.