Part 6 (1/2)

He lifts his head and glares at me. ”Since when do you care about me?”

I lean back, hands up in defense. ”What're you talking about?”

He pulls at his hair in frustration. ”You've been sleeping for three days! You won't even look at me! You said you wouldn't leave me, but you already have.”

I didn't think it was possible for me to feel worse. The one person in the world I have left to care for, and I've turned my back on him. I put my hand on his shoulder. This time he doesn't shrug it off.

”I'm sorry.” If I can get through this without crying, it'll be a miracle. ”It's just real hard.”

He sniffs. ”I know.”

”Yeah, you do. But I gotta get over it. Get my a.s.s in gear, as Auntie would say.”

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. ”She'd say you were being a lily-livered dirt eater.” He frowns, remembering.

The memory of Auntie's strange sayings lingers bitterly on my tongue. I stand and my legs buckle. Ethan grabs my hand and helps me up.

I throw my arm over Ethan's shoulder and press my face into the top of his head. ”We'll eat lunch and then set some snares. A couple of rabbits and we'll be all set.” He looks up at me, his face searching mine for rea.s.surance. I squeeze his shoulder. ”It'll be okay.”

What a terrible liar I am.

Chapter Seven.

The next day there's three unopened aluminum cans in a small pyramid on our porch. I squat down and examine the rippled cylinders. The labels are long gone, but the cans are in good shape, no dents or weird bulges. Food from another time. I wonder how long ago these were made. I'm about to chuck them in the trash when Ethan appears behind me. He looks longingly at the cans.

”Those can't be poisoned, right?”

I shrug. ”Maybe there's poison on the outside of the cans.”

He disappears, returns with Mom's rusty tongs. ”There,” he says, picking one up. ”Now we can't get sick.” He smiles at me. ”Let's eat.”

His feet thud smack on the wood floor as he runs into the kitchen. I hear him open drawers and digging out utensils. I stand on the porch and stare down the road. There's no motorcycle, no sign that Clay is lurking around. Something glints in the distance behind a large pile of rocks. Is he watching us? I stare in that direction for several minutes until Ethan calls from the kitchen that the food's done. The smell that trickles past my nose is enticing, but I can't stand the thought of eating something Clay's brought us. On the other hand, what choice do I have? My snares haven't caught anything, and the canned goods in the cellar won't last more than a week. We either eat Clay's offering, or we starve.

I sit at the table with Ethan and spoon manufactured chicken noodle soup in my mouth. The soup is thick and savory and I can't help but enjoy it a little. As I roll the slippery noodles around on my tongue, I think about Clay and what he's playing at. Why would he want us to trust him? If he wanted to capture us, he could pull up with a band of armed men. What could he gain from being kind? Maybe he just likes torturing his prey before he pounces and bites their heads off.

The next day, there's a homemade apple pie sitting on the porch. Ethan watches me with desperate eyes as I cradle the pie and bring it to the table. We hover around it and stare at the sugary apples peaking out through the slats of toasted crust. My stomach somersaults.

”Please don't throw it away.” Ethan tugs on my elbow.

Though I'm desperate for the taste of that pie in my mouth, my pride can't allow it. I push the tin towards Ethan. ”Eat it all.” I leave before I can change my mind.

I head to our bedroom and pull on my coveralls, long-sleeved t-s.h.i.+rt and boots. I gotta do something other than sit and sulk at my inability to provide. At Clay's ability to do it so easily.

”Hey, pie face,” I yell. ”Let's go check some snares so we don't have to depend on treats from terrorists.”

Ethan meanders in, smelling of baked goods. The wide smile on his crumb-covered face deepens the hurt mounting in my gut. Clay brought him that happiness.

”Put your boots on,” I grumble.

The smile slips off Ethan's face, but he does what I ask. G.o.d, no matter what I do I feel like a loathsome, hairy dirt pie.

The sun bakes our heads as we tromp through the yard to the snares. The dust kicked up gets Ethan's asthma going again. We take a break in the shade of a rotted cactus husk and stare out over the crumbling landscape. The sea of brown stretches as far as I can see. Life was nearly impossible with three adults working their fingers to the bone. Now it's just me and the kid. We have four more days of canned goods in the cellar. Without the gifts from Clay, our only hope is the snares. Rabbits are plentiful, but the coyotes get to them before we do. And leaving isn't an option. Even if we had somewhere to run, we got no fuel. I tuck my chin to my knees and try not to think about what it would feel like to starve to death.

A buzzard spins in lazy circles overhead and Ethan tracks it with his eyes. ”You think buzzards see color?”

I glance at him. A dark lock of hair falls in his eyes and he blows it up with a puff of air. A hint of a smile sits on his face as he watches the bird. When he sees a buzzard, he thinks about the wonderful things the bird can see. I think about the carca.s.s that bird's about to eat. Ethan deserves to survive. It's my job to make sure he does.

When we find the first snare, it's empty. I tuck my hands in my pockets and hide my disappointment when Ethan looks from me to the empty wire loop. In my pockets my hands clench and unclench.

The next snare delivers. A fat brown gopher lies strangled to death in my wire. Its paws have dug four deep ruts in the dry earth. Its tongue lolls to one side of his matted brown muzzle. I loosen the wire and lift him up by his hind legs.

”Gotcha,” I say to the gopher. Then I turn to Ethan. ”I'm gonna reset this snare. Go check the one over the hill and yell if we got something.”

Ethan nods and clomps over the rise.

The snare wire is kinked and it takes me a while to straighten the noose and secure it on the game trail again. Just as I'm driving the anchor back into the ground, I hear a scream.

I sit bolt upright. ”Ethan!”

I drop everything and run. The rise of the hill blocks my view, but then I hear a sound that sends gooseflesh over my arms-the distinct growl of a predator.

”No,” I whisper as I sprint up the hill and dig out my hunting knife. How could I have let him go alone?

When I reach the crest, I spot Ethan. Four coyotes-snarling mongrels with their hackles raised, their bloodstained mouths contorted in fanged smiles-circle him. They'd picked up the scent of the rabbit in our snare, but Ethan stumbled upon them. Now their eyes glint as they circle another treat. They close in. This can't be happening. I sprint faster.

Ethan hears and throws me a desperate look. His arms are extended, his palms out, as if he could shoo them away. He's complete unarmed.

The ground blurs. My heart pounds. Twenty yards to go.

The alpha, a mangy mongrel with a blood-flecked muzzle, must sense me coming. He lurches. In a flash of yellow teeth, the coyote bites Ethan's outstretched arm.

”No!”

I close the last few yards in giant bounds and barrel into the pack, my knife out, teeth gritted. I charge past the three coyotes in the back and head straight for the alpha that's trying to drag Ethan away.

Time slows. The ugly scene is crisp as I lock onto my prey. Face contorted in terror, Ethan's free hand digs into the coyote's scruff. The coyote's tail is a taut brush behind him. His ears are erect triangles marking my approach. The frothy saliva runs from his fangs into my brother's b.l.o.o.d.y arm. There's a low, guttural growl, deep in his throat.

I fall on him. The only sound is the beat of my own heart as I jab my hunting knife home.

The serrated blade slices into the coyote's mangy hide. I bury it to the hilt in fur. With a fierce yelp, the coyote jolts and skitters sideways. He drops my brother's arm. Blood gushes from the animal's haunch. The coyote looks to his wound and then to me. He growls, flas.h.i.+ng b.l.o.o.d.y fangs, but then limps sloppily over the ridge. His pack follows.

They're gone. Ethan.

With my blood still thrumming in my ears and the p.r.i.c.kles of heat flooding my veins, I drop beside my brother, now pale and covered with dust.