“If he’s alive or dead. Girl, don’t sweat it. You’re not the abuser. You’re the victim. Don’t you dare feel sorry for your brother. And you can’t undo what has already been done. You got a new life now. A new family. A new beginning. You were protecting yourself, and that’s not a crime.”

Running her tongue over dry lips. Closing her eyes, all she can see is Mitch’s face. The puddle of blood. Opening her eyes, she says, “You’re right, but it don’t make it no easier.”

“Look, the life you ran from don’t sound much different from what I escaped from. What I’ve come to learn is this: if life was easy, you wouldn’t be here now. Everything that happened before has prepared you for this moment.”

Pausing on Cinnamon’s words, Anne still feels something for her brother even though he was abusive toward her. She says, “My biggest fear is I killed my brother and now they’re looking for me. What I want is . . .” She hesitates. Can’t put it into words, form it into a sentence.

Cinnamon tells her, “Just say it.”

“I no longer wanna be me.”

“Then don’t be. Change who you are.” Cinnamon squeezes her knee. “Now, come on. Let’s get some coffee. Take your mind off all this sappy-ass talk. We’ve got all kinds of time to think and talk about heavy shit later. We need to see about getting into town before Dredd and everyone is woke up. Earn some money. We ain’t staying here any longer than we need to, ’cause longer we stay, crazier shit gets.”

Working her way up from the hard ground. Standing amid the clutter of books, water bottles, and buckets. Trot is curled up, snoring away beneath tree branches spread out like rafters supporting the worn blue tarp of a roof. Cinnamon looks at Anne, who spreads her arms and embraces her. Patting her back, Anne says, “Thanks for listening.”

“I’ll always listen,” Cinnamon replies. Releasing her, she says, “I mean, what are friends for? You’re in a place that’s new, and I know it seems strange. You’ll come around. Find your comfort zone. You’re not used to love and compassion from others. I see it. You’re like an abused dog. It all takes time.”

Walking from one tarped and tented area to another, a younger guy with black hair flying off in all directions stands over the fire pit, where a kettle sits bubbling on a wire stove shelf spanning two concrete blocks. “Morning, Vargas,” Cinnamon says.

Vargas gave a peace sign. “Morning. Water’s heated. You want some morning brew?”

“If you can spare it.”

“Anything for you, Cinnamon. Your buddy want a cup?”

“Please,” Anne says, now with a bit more pep in her tone.