Her body is burning, fevered; she smells of metal and vinegar and terror. I press my forehead to hers, and the world narrows to the sound of her ragged breathing and my own pulse, which is a war drum.
Mom isright at her side, wiping at Willow’s neck with a blanket. “Her pulse is weak. Lucky, something is really wrong.”
“Fuck,” I breathe out, the word broken. I stand and scoop Willow up into my arms, lifting her against my chest. She’s weightless. Burning and freezing at the same time.
“I’m getting you out of here,” I say into her hair as I turn and dart down the hall.
Back in the living room, my uncles are binding and gagging Phoenix with ropes and tape.
“Go,” Dad says as he hauls a gas can in from the front porch. “We’ll keep him contained until she’s ready for him. And take care of all this evidence.” He splashes the gas out onto the floor.
“Thank you,” I mutter. And then I run.
The desert air slams into me as I burst through the door. The stars look too sharp. The world feels tilted.
“Mom!” I yell. “You’re driving!”
She’s already behind me, aimed for the driver’s door of my car.
Mormor watches from the passenger seat as I climb in back, Willow in my arms. “Hold her, boy. Don’t let go.”
I slam the door closed and adjust Willow’s head against my chest. “Drive!”
Gravel sprays as the tires catch. The car fishtails once, then launches forward.
Behind us, the first flickers of orange light climb into the sky.
I look back through the window. Dad and the uncles walk out the front door, dragging an unconscious Phoenix between them, silhouettes against the growing blaze. The cabin goes up fast—dry wood and gasoline. Flames roar through the roof, eating every secret inside.
The road stretches ahead like an open wound. Blacktop, sand, stars. Nothing else.
Mom’s behind the wheel, jaw locked, eyes burning holes through the windshield. She drives like the law doesn’t exist—like the whole world narrowed to one command:don’t stop.
“Twenty-four minutes to the hospital,” she says, voice flat with focus.
“Make it fifteen,” I say quietly.
Mormor mutters a prayer in Norwegian, fingers flying over her beads.
I look down at Willow. Her skin is slick and cold, her lips pale. Her chest rises in shallow jerks.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Stay with me, yeah? You hear me?”
Her eyes flicker, unfocused. A small groan escapes her lips, but not words.
Her breath rattles, shallow and uneven, and every sound she makes feels like the universe tearing one stitch looser.
“Hey—hey, look at me.” I try to find her through the blur. I hold her face, trying to be exceptionally gentle, but my hands are shaking so damn bad. “You’re going to be all right. We’re almost to the hospital. Just hold on, Willow.”
She tries to answer, but it’s just a hiss of air, a faint sound that might be my name or a curse. Sweat slicks her skin, her hair is matted to her temple.
Every bump in the road is a hammer blow. My chest aches with every one. I can feel her slipping.
My mother’s voice cuts through the noise of our frantic sprint through the desert. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s not—” My throat locks up. “She’s not okay.”
I press my forehead to Willow’s. “Stay with me,” I whisper. “You don’t get to check out now, you hear me? You’ve got a list. Think of all the assholes that are still out there. You’ve got blood left to spill.”
