“Okay.I love you.”
“Love you, too, Little Bird.”He rests his mouth on the top of my head.
The tent flaps rustle with the wind, and suddenly, I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open.
But I can sleep now, because he’ll be here, guarding me in the dark.
Three years later
I stand in front of the electronics store and pretend the ground is interesting.Cracked concrete, gum spots, cigarette butts, anything to keep my good eye from drifting toward the glass door.
Because my other eye?It’s a whole situation.
It throbs when I blink.I smeared on heavy black makeup this morning, and my hair hangs in my face.But I can feel the bruise pulsing through the strands.
Jag expects me to be here every day after school.If I don’t show, he’ll find me.Which would be fantastic if I didn’t share a room with two other girls.
If Jag climbed through our window, the whole foster home would explode.Then we’d have to move again, and I’m tired.Tired of switching schools and learning new rules and changing my name, appearance, and identity.
I hike my backpack higher on my shoulder and go in, jingling the bell over the door.
“He’s in the back.”The store owner stands behind the counter, not bothering to look up.
I shuffle past old DVD players and towers of discount phone cases until I reach the storage aisle.
Jag crouches there with a box cutter, slicing tape off a shipment of speakers.
His hair curls around his ears, shaggy and wild.It looks different now.Grown-up different.He could be on a movie poster if he ever bothered to smile.
The amber color of his eyes is different, too.Harder.Older.Meaner.Because he learned too many things nobody his age should learn.
And his body… I pretend not to notice, but he grows in these strange, sudden ways.He’s big.Everywhere.Not fat.Every part of him is hard and strong.His uniform shirt pulls across his chest, and his muscles stretch and stack like bricks.
His face is dreamy at every angle, and sometimes, when I look at him, my stomach feels weird.
I’m thirteen.I shouldn’t notice things like this.Especially not about my brother.
But I do.
Everyone does.
I brush my hair over my eye and walk toward him.He glances up.Just a flick.Barely a second.
The box cutter freezes in his hand.His jaw turns to stone, and he stands in one smooth push of muscle and anger.
“Who?”He tosses the blade and strides straight to me.
It’s not a question.It’s bloodstains under his fingernails.
“It’s nothing.”My heartbeat kicks into a drum solo.“I’m fine.”
“Let’s go.”He grabs my hand, firm but not rough, and pulls me toward the front.
“Stop.Wait.You’re at work.”
He doesn’t stop.
“Where are you going?”The owner straightens behind the counter.“Hey!You can’t leave, Simon!”
