My stomach is growling, begging for food. I’ve never really been hungry before, not like this. Hunger is like a little brother tugging at my sleeve, begging for something to eat, keeping me awake. This is so lame, but I can’t stop thinking about pancakes. The Mother’s Day morning when me and my brothers wrecked the kitchen trying to make pancakes for Mom so she could have breakfast in bed. And how happy she was, despite the mess in the kitchen and the fact the pancakes tasted like rubber. How she gave us a group hug and said how lucky she was to have four wonderful sons, and that we were not to worry, because everything would be okay, even if it seemed scary sometimes.

That was the year Dad was in the hospital for almost a month, and we were all worried sick. To this day, I believe that group hug saved us, and kept the family together. Mom’s magic hug made all the difference.

Eventually, I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, the girls are nudging me awake.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Time to take back what’s ours.”

In the dim light of dawn, I can see that they’re grinning at me, like they know something I don’t. And they’re both holding long wooden sticks, slender branches that look an awful lot like spears.

What’s going on? What do they have in mind?

Mia stands at attention, shoulders back, chin up. “Maria Valentina Garcia, ready for battle.”

“Is this a joke?”

“The opposite,” Imani says, hefting her spear. “We assumed you’ll be joining us.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I say miserably. “I don’t think I can do it.”

They look at each other, then look at me.

Imani says, “You stood up to a mountain lion, you can stand up to a bully and his clown. Let’s go!”

Day Four

17. Die! Die! Die!

Mia hands me one of the spears they made while I was asleep. It doesn’t have a sharp end, so it’s not like you could really hurt someone with it. But still, it looks like a weapon.

“Better than nothing,” Imani says. “To defend ourselves.”

“Right.”

We march into the daylight brandishing our sticks. We’re bad, wicked bad. Standing tall, unafraid. Well, pretending to be unafraid. Show fear to a bully, he’ll use it against you.

“Which way?” Imani asks.

I shrug helplessly. It’s not like I know anything about tracking.

“There,” Mia says, pointing at a small strip of cloth stuck to the brambles.

We push carefully through the scratchy brambles and spot a trail of muddy footprints, heading back in the direction we came from yesterday. I put my finger to my lips. We must be silent. They can’t be far away. How far could they get in the dark of night without a flashlight?