PROLOGUE
Lynx
Many years ago
The big hand strikes seven thirty. I’m officially late to drop my little brother off.
Which means I’m going to be late for work.
Fuck.
I was lucky to get a job with the railroad at this age—I practically begged them on my hands and knees so I could try to save our mother. Her medical bills were piling up—some still aren’t fully paid—so Ireallycan’t get fired.
Dylan pokes at the last scoop of porridge we have, his feet swinging back and forth, nowhere near the ground, at the broken table in the corner of the shared room. “Can I eat something else? This makes my tummy hurt,” he whines, pushing the food around with the burned spoon. His curlyblonde hair hangs in his eyes, uneven from the last time I tried to cut it with a blunt pair of scissors.
Dylan is five, and the other kids his age all have jobs after school, but I promised our mom before she died that I’d keep him out of work and try to give him the luxury of an education. That I’d work myself to the bone to give him a better future.
He lowers his head when I shake my own. “We don’t have anything else. I’ll get us some bread on the way home.”
“Can I stay here with Mommy?”
“No.” I rush around, trying to find his shoes.
It’s been over two months since our mother passed away from her illness, but Dylan is still in denial and thinks she’s going to walk in the door at any moment.
I tried to explain, but he just didn’t get it. When he’s a little older, I’ll tell him all the stories we have from when she was alive.
I lift a box of her clothes to look under it, then drop it down and run a hand through my dark hair.
Where the fuck are his shoes?
Mom made this look easy. I should’ve paid more attention to how she did things—maybe then I’d know what I was doing when I became Dylan’s guardian. I don’t have a clue. But I figure as long as he’s got food on the table, clothes on his back, and a roof over his head, I can learn as I go.
Finally, I find his shoes under the messed-up rug and hand them to him. The laces are frayed, and the material is hanging on by threads. My next pay, I’ll take him to get new ones.
I pull on my cap and slide on my boots. “We need to leave, kid.”
“Can you put my shoes on?” he asks with a toothy grin.
I want to teach him how to tie his laces, but I don’t have time, and I’ve never been able to say no to him anyway. I get down on one knee and slacken his laces, inwardly sighing when morestitching comes undone, though I had tried my best to patch it up. He’s growing too fast, and Mom was the seamstress out of us.
Slipping one on then the other, I make a mental note to try and stitch the shoe again later.
Dylan messes with my hair as if sensing my turmoil, and I give him a joking glare. “There’s no time to play right now.”
“Do you promise to play with me later, Lynx?”
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “How many times do I need to tell you?Lincoln. It’s easy to say.”
“I prefer Lynx.”
“It’s a stupid name,” I reply, shaking my head as I tie his laces. “Come on.”
“Promise? At the spot by the big, big tree?” He’s looking up at me hopefully—his blue eyes are identical to mine, the same shade as our deadbeat father’s.
My shoulders fall, and I lift my pinkie finger, hooking it with his. “I promise.”
He grins all the way to the front door.
