“I’ve captured a bat.” She whacks the cupboard with the broom. A fuzzy, brown blur flits out toward her face. She yelps and teeters in her chair. As her arms wheel through the air to regain balance, the butcher knife slices wildly close to her thigh.

“Auntie, Christ!” I run to the chair and steady it. The butcher knife clatters to the floor as she grabs hold of my shoulder. The bat flutters madly inside the cupboard.

I clutch her arm, feeling the thin ripple of muscle as she steps down. “You’re gonna kill yourself! What’re you doing?” I snag the butcher knife from the floor and tuck it into a drawer.

“I’ve got the bugger trapped,” she pants. She points to where the bat knocks over my mama’s dishes. “I’ll fry it up for supper.” She licks her thin lips. “It’ll taste like chicken.” Auntie takes another whack the cupboard. Inside the bat smashes into plates and cups.

I push her chair back under the table. “The bugger’s got rabies. ’Sides, Arn’s going to town. We’ll have real chicken maybe.”

She cocks her head and then sets the broom against the wall. “In that case, you can remove the vermin.”

Great. What do I do with a bat? I crouch down, extend one arm and open the top cupboard. The bat bashes around inside for a moment. Then he sees his escape, flies out and flits around the kitchen. When he finds the open window and slips through, a tightness grips my heart again. His escape is so easy. I’m still trapped, bashing my body into closed doors.

A tear breaks through my guard and slides down my face. I pretend to itch my nose and wipe it away, but Auntie’s eyes lock on me. She stops plaiting her hair and taps a weathered finger on the table. “Sit.”

“I should check on Ethan.” I don’t want to discuss this.

“Sit,” Auntie growls at me.

I sit and direct my eyes to the battered tabletop. Someone long ago scratched the initials J.R. on the wood. I wonder if J.R. is the man we found dead, half eaten by coyotes, in the side yard when we moved in.

Auntie grabs a dry crust of bread from the basket between us and starts gumming it. Then she leans toward me, her lips pressed in a thin, cracked line. “You got a bee in your bonnet and I want to know what it is.”

I shake my head. “Nope. Fine. Can I go?”

Auntie narrows her eyes and puts one crooked finger on her chin. “Not fine,” she says, slowly. “Definitely not fine. Heard you coaxing your step-daddy to take you to town. You know why you can’t go.”

Sure, I know why they say I can’t go. I hear nothing but how they gotta protect me, how dangerous it is for me to leave this house, how I can’t trust strangers. I also know we can’t live this way forever. Someday I’ll have to fend for myself.