We go over the secret questions, the safe places, the scars and birthmarks. We say the words over and over until they start to feel worn smooth in my mouth, familiar and comfortable like a prayer I've said a thousand times.
Jason Michael Morrow. March fifteenth. Macon, Georgia. Rebecca Morrow, maiden name Thorne. Scar on the left hand between the thumb and finger. Safe place is a beach with white sand and blue water. What did Jay say to me the first night we met? You can breathe.
By the time the rain finally stops and we see the lights go off in the farmhouse one by one, I know Jay's information as well as I know my own name. Better, maybe, because I've repeated his facts more times in the last two hours than I've said my own name in my entire life. Because my own name has never felt as important as his does right now.
We sneak back inside when we're sure it's safe, careful and quiet, avoiding the creaky floorboards we've memorized, slipping into our room like ghosts and closing the door softly behind us with barely a whisper of sound. I change into my sleep shirt, the one that's getting too small but still works, and climb into bed. The springs poke into my back the same as they always do, but I don't mind anymore. I'm used to it now. I barely even notice.
"Jay?" I whisper into the darkness once we're both settled. "We're not going to get separated," I say, and I hate how much it sounds like a question. "Right? This is just in case. Just being careful."
I can hear him breathing in the bed across from mine, slow and steady, the only sound in the room besides the settling of the old house around us.
"Right. Just in case. Just being careful."
But there's something in his voice that sounds like a lie, or at least like uncertainty, and I think we both know it. The world is too big and too cruel and too unpredictable to make promises about forever. All wecan do is prepare for the worst and hope for the best and hold onto each other as hard as we can for as long as we can.
I close my eyes and start reciting the facts in my head, silently, like counting sheep to fall asleep. Jason Michael Morrow. March fifteenth. Macon, Georgia. Rebecca Morrow, maiden name Thorne. Scar on the left hand between the thumb and finger. Beach with white sand and blue water. You can breathe.
I fall asleep with Jay's information running through my mind like a song I'll never forget, like lyrics burned into my brain, and I dream about oceans I've never seen and beaches with white sand and a future where we're both safe and free and together.
In the dream, we make it.
Chapter 6: Jay
I know something is wrong the moment Henderson's truck pulls into the driveway.
It's Thursday evening, and Ivan and I are in the kitchen doing dishes from dinner, falling into the familiar rhythm we've developed over the months. Mrs. Henderson is in her bedroom with the door closed, which is where she usually is by this time of night, hiding in her own space and pretending we don't exist. The TV is on in the living room playing to no one, some game show with canned laughter that fills the empty house. Everything is quiet and calm, the kind of deceptive calm that makes me nervous because I've learned it never lasts, that calm is just the eye of a storm.
The truck door slams. Not the tired slam. Not even the regular angry slam I've learned to recognize. This is something else entirely, something worse, a violence in the sound that makes my whole body go tight with instant dread.
"Go to our room," I say to Ivan, keeping my tone calm even though my heart is starting to pound hard against my ribs. "Now. Quick. Don't ask questions."
But it's too late. The front door bangs open so hard it hits the wall, and Henderson is there, filling the doorway like a thundercloud, and I can tell from one look at his face that tonight is going to be bad. Worse than bad. His eyes are bloodshot, the whites gone pink with burst vessels, and his jaw is set in that particular way that means he's been stewing on something for hours, building up a rage that needs somewhere to go, needs someone to hurt.
He's drunker than I've seen him in weeks, swaying slightly as he stands there in the doorway, and his gaze sweeps the kitchen until it lands on Ivan.
"You," he says, and the word is thick with whiskey and venom, dripping with malice. "Get over here."
Ivan is frozen at the sink, his hands still submerged in the soapy water, and I can see the terror on his face even though he's tryingdesperately to hide it. He's gotten better at hiding his fear over the past months, but not good enough, not for something like this. Not when Henderson is looking at him like he wants to destroy him.
"What did he do?" I ask, stepping forward slightly, trying to put myself between them, trying to draw Henderson's attention away from Ivan. "Whatever it is, I'm sure he didn't mean—"
"Shut your goddamn mouth," Henderson snarls, and he doesn't even look at me. His eyes are fixed on Ivan like a predator watching prey, unblinking and hungry. "I said get over here, boy. Now. Don't make me come over there."
Ivan pulls his hands out of the water slowly. They're shaking, trembling so badly that water drips off his fingers in a steady stream. He wipes them on his jeans, leaving dark wet patches on the denim, and takes a step toward Henderson.
Everything in me is screaming to stop this, to do something, to grab Ivan and run, but I know from bitter experience that interfering too early only makes it worse. I have to wait. I have to pick my moment carefully. If I move too soon, Henderson will hurt both of us worse.
"You think I'm stupid?" Henderson says as Ivan approaches, his voice rising. He reaches out and grabs Ivan by the collar of his shirt, yanking him close with brutal force. Ivan stumbles forward, barely keeping his feet under him, and I can see his throat working as he swallows hard. "You think I don't know what you been doing? You think I'm too drunk to notice?"
"I don't—I don't know what you mean, sir," Ivan says, and his voice is barely a whisper, thin with fear.
"The food," Henderson spits, his face inches from Ivan's. "You been stealing food from the kitchen. Don't you dare lie to me, boy. I counted the cans in the pantry this morning and three of them are missing. Three cans of beans. You think you can just take whatever you want? You think this is a charity? You think I work my ass off to feed ungrateful little fucking thieves?"
It was me. I took the cans. Three cans of beans over a period of weeks that I hid in the back of our closet for emergencies, for nights when dinner isn't enough to fill our stomachs or when Henderson decides wedon't deserve to eat at all. Ivan doesn't even know about them. I was going to tell him eventually, was going to show him where I'd hidden them, but I hadn't gotten around to it yet.
"That was me," I say. "I took the cans. Ivan didn't have anything to do with it. He doesn't even know about them."
Henderson finally looks at me, turning his head slowly, and the smile that crosses his face makes my blood run cold. It's not a human smile. It's the smile of something that enjoys causing pain, that feeds on suffering. It's the worst smile I've ever seen on his face, and I've seen a lot of them.
