He wipes his thumb across my cheek, where dried tears left itchy lines.His touch is soft, but his skin is hot.I know that look in his eyes.It’s the same one I saw the night he pulled me out of the pantry.
“I need you to sit right here and wait for me.”He crouches where my legs dangle off the bed and fixes the ties on my shoes.Then he places the folded knife on my lap.“I’ll be right back.”
“Promise?”
“I swear it.”He sticks out his pinky.
I wrap mine around his, squeezing so hard my hand shakes.After I kiss our tangled fingers, he leans in to kiss them, too, locking the promise in place.
“Okay, now I need you to put your fingers in your ears.”He stands and walks to the door.“Do not move them until I come back.”
I shove my fingers in as deep as they’ll go and clamp my elbows to my ribs.The world goes muffled, then completely quiet.My breath is loud in my skull.My heart, too.
The knife sits on my lap like he left it.
I don’t know how long he’s gone.A minute.Ten.Forever.Time feels strange when he’s not in the room, but I’m not scared anymore.
He’s here.I’m safe now.He said so with his eyes before he stepped into the hall.
The door opens again.
I don’t move my fingers until he taps my wrist.He holds a balled-up shirt and uses it to wipe his hands.It’s bloody, soaked through, dark and sticky, smearing across his knuckles.There’s so much blood my stomachturns, but I’m not scared of that, either.
I’m only scared the blood might be his.
His knuckles are split open like whenever he hits something too hard, too many times.
“Dean won’t hurt me again, will he?”
“No.”His eyes flash like fire, warming me on the inside.“Never again.”
He slings on his backpack, and I throw myself against his chest, hugging his hard middle.His arms hug me, too, lifting me and the trash bag.
“What about Little Jag?”I point at my only toy.
He swings around, staring at it, his face pinching before smoothing out again.
“You don’t need it.”He kisses my nose.“You have me.”
“Okay.”
I give Little Jag a wave goodbye as the real Jag carries me out the window and takes me to where he sleeps.
It’s not far, under the freeway bridge, deep enough that rain doesn’t hit.He has a tent now.A real tent, with a zippered door and everything.
I miss the cardboard fort, but he says the tent is easier to move.
Inside, a tiny lantern sits beside a pile of blankets.There’s plenty of room until he slips in.He takes up all the space.
His backpack goes in the corner, and my trash bag beside it.He gives me crackers, a squished granola bar, and half a soda.I eat even though my throat is sore from crying.
“You got taller.”He puts his hand on my head, where it brushes the ceiling of the tent.“And your hair’s longer.All the way down your back now.”
“Yours, too.”
“Yeah.”He fingers the curly ends where they sit on his shoulders.“Guess so.”
“And this.”I drag my fingertips across the pale prickles on his cheek, laughing at the scratchiness.“You have a beard!”
