I nearly choke on my eggs when I finally grasp what Bennett is saying. I’ll have to share a room with Clay and Ethan. This cannot happen. Clay might notice something fishy when I sleep in my coat and jeans. I try to think of a solution while a fly rubs his feet together on my fork. It’s going to be a long day.

After breakfast, we spend hours helping Bennett do his chores. He limps around, showing us what to do. His left leg is pretty well useless, but somehow he works through it, tending his straggly garden, hauling bails of hay, cleaning out his horse stable of the skinniest horse I’ve ever seen. Clay, meanwhile, tosses heavy bags of feed and slings a shovel like he’s been doing it all his life. When he takes off his shirt in the barn and shows off his muscular chest, my cheeks grow hot. I keep my eyes on my pitchfork.

As I’m spreading hay into the horse stall, Clay saunters over to Ethan, who’s sprinkling chicken feed in the coop. Clay’s hand casually rubs my brother’s mop of hair. They could be brothers with their dark hair and easy smiles. Ethan turns his on Clay now, a smile normally reserved for me. I feel a pain beneath in my ribs. I skewer an innocent bail of hay with my pitchfork to stifle the feeling.

Working in ninety-degree weather in a coat and jeans has me so hot black blobs dance in my vision. With the fresh hay spread, I need a break. I walk over to the shade of the chicken coop where Ethan has sought out shade. He sits cross-legged behind the coop with a chicken on his lap. He’s stroking the thing like a dog. I shoo away the skinny bird. She scuttles off, throwing up feathers and squawking at me.

“These chickens look sickly. Don’t touch them.” I feel bad for my crankiness. Is it the heat and or my burning jealousy?

“They’re nice,” he says. Then his eyes slide to the slanted shadow on the porch. “Riley,” he whispers, “that old man keeps staring at me.”

I follow his eyes to Bennett’s father, who’s leaning against the porch rail. Why is he so fixed on my brother? Ethan’s a cute kid, sure. People sometimes marvel at his blue eyes or the way he asks a question that everyone’s thinking. But this old man’s not watching him with wonder or fascination. He tracks him like a hawk tracks a rabbit.

I squat down next to Ethan and whisper, “If you notice anything, if you even get a strange feeling, we’re out of here. I don’t care how much Clay trusts Bennett. We can find Mama without him.”