His words echo in Anne’s head. Clamping her eyes shut, she twists her head from side to side. “No! No! No!” she screams. She doesn’t want to do this, to get trapped in this game of victimhood. Turning to run, she slips on the slick of Mitch’s blood. Her forehead clips the countertop. Lips and teeth scrape down the cabinet door. Her chin smacks the floor. Vibrations rattle through her face. Neck. Shoulders. From behind, she feels her brother’s hands climbing her legs, digging into her calf muscles.

And as she had done to the attacking dog when escaping over the fence, and to the rail-yard worker when escaping under the fence, she kicks. She jerks. She fights. No longer wanting this life, this violent trajectory of actions from a family that kept her down. She kicks and kicks as the hands keep digging, squeezing, then shaking her entire being awake.

Crunching upward and sitting on her ass. Chest heaving, lungs burning. Eyes watering. She stares at the blurred outline until it coalesces into Cinnamon. Feeling a warm weight pressing against her thigh, she looks down at Cinnamon’s hand.

Words of concern fall softly from Cinnamon’s lips in the twilight of what Anne guesses is morning. “You all right?”

Clambering out of the snagged and dirty sleeping bag, Anne looks around. Seeing the fleecy-white guts and the interior of red and black plaid, she realizes she isn’t home. “Yeah. Just a bad dream.”

“Been trying to wake you for a few minutes. Anything you wanna talk about?”

Anne considers her words before she speaks. Can she trust the girl? She feels that she can. Feels comfortable with her, as if Anne, too, belongs in this world of hers. There was this mutual feeling of belonging. Acceptance in this new domain of life. It is something foreign to her, something she isn’t accustomed to. Anne keeps reinforcing this acceptance, this fresh start. Telling herself this is a place devoid of judgment. Of rules. Of hurt. Inhaling deep, she holds her breath, then exhales slowly. Cinnamon’s touch is gentle, comforting. Moving closer now.

Anne said, “When I decided to run away, my brother walked in on me in the kitchen. I was preparing to leave. There was an exchange of words. An argument. It got heated and—”

“Physical,” Cinnamon interjects. “I know. You mentioned something about siblings. Plus, there’s your eyes looking like bruised fruit. Kinda hard to miss those symbols.”

Anne had forgotten about the black eyes. “Right.” She laughs. “I was defending myself and hit him in the head with a cast-iron skillet. Dropped him to the kitchen floor. There was blood. I panicked. Ran. And I don’t know if—”