I watched until he vanished back into the darkness, and at some point I remembered to close my mouth.

I looked down at Cassius, and he looked up at me, his forehead furrowed.

“Let’s not do that again,” I said.

We headed back up the broad stone steps to the front doors. When we stepped inside, a hand set down on my shoulder, hard, startling me.

Ben had snuck over from his post in the gym to spy on us.

“If you’d screwed up,” he said, tapping my chest with his stun gun, “I’d have killed you myself.”

I believed him.

Entry 17

ENTRY 17

I’m snuggled in the sheets, and Sue-Anne sits next to me, leaning against the headboard, reading from To Kill a Mockingbird. Patrick is down with Uncle Jim in the garage, helping him change out the brake pads on his truck. He’s eight and gets a whole other set of privileges, including coming up to bed later.

I lie as still as possible, hoping that if I’m good, she’ll read one more chapter, that she’ll keep going forever. But she doesn’t. She finishes the page and closes the book, and my heart sinks. It is my third month in their house, and this quiet time with her is my favorite time of all. Tonight I will figure out how to fall asleep alone. Tomorrow I will get up early to help on the ranch before school. Everything is different.

Sue-Anne leans over, kisses my forehead.

The words burn in my chest, and before I can catch them, they are out of my mouth. “I hate them,” I say.

On her way out the door, she pauses. “I don’t understand.”

“My parents.”

She takes a moment, her lips pouched out like she’s thinking real hard. “Why do you say that, Chance?”

“They didn’t have to get drunk and get in a stupid car crash. They had me and Patrick at home. They never even thought about us that night.”

She doesn’t say anything. She just nods—not like in agreement but to show she’s listening. I know I’m acting like a baby, but I can’t help it. Everything’s burning—my chest, my face, my eyes.

“And I don’t want to—” My breath catches in my throat, and I have to stop for a second. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I say it anyways. “And I don’t want to grow up yet.”

She nods again, and her eyes are wistful, and I realize that even though I’ve known her my whole life, maybe I don’t know her much at all. When she speaks, her tone is as soft and kind as I’ve ever heard it. “Sometimes what we want isn’t what we need.” I look up at her, confused. “What does that mean?” I say.

A commotion jarred me out of the dream memory.