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Back The Scattering Save as PDF
Chapters (36)
  1. DEDICATION
  2. EPIGRAPH
  3. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  32. BACK AD
  33. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  34. BOOKS BY KIMBERLY McCREIGHT
  35. CREDITS
  36. ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

I keep my eyes straight ahead when the squeaky library cart is finally coming closer and closer. I have a bad feeling that the librarian has her sights set on me, probably because I am one of the only girls who didn’t get up. I brace myself for a lecture about how reading is fundamental, how it will offer me a path to redemption. I hope that I do not say something nasty in return. But I cannot be sure. I trust myself less and less with each passing hour.

“Last call for books!” the guard shouts.

Finally, the cart stops right behind me. I do not look up. But out of the corner of my eye, I watch the librarian put a paperback down on the arm of the couch next to me. And then I feel this wave of kindness. It’s so strong and pure and not at all judgmental like I had expected. It catches me off guard. So much that I’m pretty sure I’ll start crying if I look up at her. And so I keep my eyes down. In here, I am much better off being the girl who sets her friends on fire than being the one who cries to the volunteer librarian.

“Okay, that’s it!” the guard calls.

But her cart is still there. It hasn’t squeaked away. The librarian is still waiting for me. I can feel how much she wants me, needs me—in some totally irrational way—to look up and let her know that I am okay. That I will be okay. Why does this woman need that? She doesn’t even know me. I try to swallow my anger back.

But maybe her caring is a sign that I need to believe myself that I will be okay. I breathe deep and try to imagine getting through this. And when I do, a little gap in time opens, a window forward.

And my instincts say that I will. That if I can just be brave enough to have faith, if I can be strong enough to have hope—that I will make it through. Like all the other terrible things that have happened, I will survive this. Whatever it takes. I can believe that. No matter how impossible it seems.

“Hey,” the librarian whispers, her voice hoarse and gravelly. And now her kindness and caring are even stronger. Warm and bright around me. Like the sun. Like love. “Take this.”

When I look down, she is holding out another paperback, and on top of it, a note. I’m going to get you out of here. I promise. xoxo.

And when I look up, it is not some friendly old librarian I see. Instead, it is my mom. Alive and well and staring down at me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS