I lean into him a little, just a little bit, seeking the warmth of another human being. Just a little. He's warm even in the cold barn, body heat radiating through his T-shirt.
"What if he really hurts me?" I whisper, voicing my deepest fear. "Like, hospital hurts me? What if he goes too far?"
"He won't," Jay says with certainty. "He's mean but he's not stupid. Hospital means questions. Questions mean doctors asking how you got hurt. Doctors mean social workers getting involved, investigations. He doesn't want that any more than we do."
"We don't want social workers?" I ask, confused. "Wouldn't they help us?"
Jay laughs, but it's not a happy laugh. It's bitter and knowing. "Social workers means we get moved, Ivan. You go one place, I go another place. We never see each other again. They don't keep siblings together, and we're not even siblings, so they definitely won't keep us together. Is that what you want?"
"No," I say, and the word comes out fast, almost desperate. I've only known Jay three weeks but the thought of being taken away from him, of losing the only person who's ever protected me, makes me panic. "No, I don't want that at all."
"Then we deal with this," Jay says firmly. "We deal with the Hendersons, we keep our heads down, we survive whatever they throw at us. Together. One day at a time. That's the only way this works. That's the only way we both make it through."
I nod slowly, understanding the terrible mathematics of our situation now. The awful equation we're forced to solve. Bruises and belts and fear, or losing Jay. Those are the options.
"I can do it," I say, and I'm not sure if I'm telling him or telling myself, trying to convince one of us that it's true. "When it happens, I can do it. I won't cry."
"I know you can," Jay says, and he puts his arm around my shoulders, pulls me close against his side. "And when it happens—and it will happen, probably sooner rather than later, you come find me after. Nomatter what. You come find me and I'll be there. We'll take care of each other. Okay?"
"Okay," I agree. Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking, the sound carrying across the fields. The wind moves through the tall grass, making it whisper and sway, creating patterns I can almost see in the darkness.
"Jay?" I say after a while. "What's your place?" I ask. "The place you go to in your head when it's happening?"
"My place?" he repeats, like he's not sure he heard me right.
"The place you go. In your head. When it's happening. You said you go somewhere else."
He's quiet for so long I think maybe he won't answer, maybe it's too personal to share. "There's this beach I saw in a magazine once," he finally says. "When I was at a different placement. White sand, blue water stretching out forever. Nobody else there, just me. Just waves and sun and peace. I go there."
"That sounds nice," I say, trying to picture it.
"It is," he agrees. "You should find your own. A place that's just yours. Safe. Somewhere you can go when things get bad, when you need to escape inside your own mind."
I close my eyes and try to think of a place, searching through my memories for something good and safe. I don't have many good memories to choose from. Not even a picture. Most of my life has been old rooms and temporary beds and people who don't want me, people who see me as a burden or a paycheck.
But then I think of right now. This barn, this loft with its dusty hay. Jay's arm around me, warm and solid. The cold outside and the warmth of having someone next to me who actually cares if I live or die, who sees me as a person worth protecting.
Maybe this is my place. Maybe my safe place is just wherever Jay is, whatever location we happen to be in together.
I don't tell him that, though. It feels too big to say out loud, too vulnerable. Too much like admitting that I need him more than he needs me.
Later, when the lights in the farmhouse have been off for over an hour and we're reasonably sure Henderson has passed out in his chair, we sneak back inside as quietly as possible. The floorboards creak beneath our feet but we've learned which ones to avoid, which boards are loose and which are silent. We slip into our room like ghosts, close the door soft behind us, turning the handle so it doesn't click.
I change into the T-shirt I sleep in, the one that's too big and has a hole near the hem. Climb into bed carefully. The springs poke into my back but I've gotten used to it over the past three weeks, learned to shift my weight to avoid the worst of them.
"Jay?" I whisper into the darkness.
"Mm?" he responds sleepily.
"Thanks," I say, not sure how to put everything I'm feeling into words. "For explaining. For preparing me. For..." I don't know how to finish. For everything. For being the only person in my whole life who's made me feel like I matter, like I'm worth something.
"Get some sleep, Ivan," Jay says gently. "Tomorrow's a school day. We've got to be up early."
I close my eyes and try to find the beach Jay talked about with the white sand, blue water, peace but it's not mine. It doesn't work for me. The image won't stick in my mind.
Instead, I picture the barn. The loft with its dusty hay. The two of us sitting there together, Jay's arm around me, watching the sky turn dark.
That's where I go in my mind as I drift off to sleep.
