Joey’s face twisted in disgust. The crack of Clara’s fist. The thud of her body hitting the dirt.
And Billy.
Billy, standing there like a statue. Watching. Silent.
He didn’t defend me. He didn’t even look at me.
A knock breaks the silence.
It’s impatient, and I jump.
“Sedona?”
Clara’s voice, tight with tension, filters through the wood. Even muffled, the strain in her tone is unmistakable.
Getting up feels impossible. Facing her means seeing the bruise on her hip and the scratch on her palm—reminders I’m not ready for—but leaving her outside isn’t an option.
On shaky legs, I force myself up. A quick swipe clears the dust from my jeans. After a deep breath, I try to rearrange my features, desperate to hide the mask of misery underneath.
The lock clicks, and the door swings open.
Clara stands on the porch. Her arms are crossed. Her face is pale, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and her messy hair is pulled back in a ponytail that’s coming loose.
She looks tired. And she looks pissed.
“The CDC guys are calling us,” she says. Her voice is flat. “They want to do another round of blood draws. Thorne is pissed that we wandered off.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll come.”
I step out onto the porch. The air outside is cool. The news vans are gone. Ruth is gone. The yard is empty, save for a few CDC workers in white suits moving like ghosts in the distance.
I look at Clara. I try to meet her eyes, but she looks away, staring at the horizon.
“Clara…”
“Don’t,” she snaps.
“I just want to talk.”
“Not now, Sedona. Not when you’re sick. Let’s just go.”
She turns and starts walking toward the main tent. Her stride is long, aggressive. She’s limping slightly. I see the way she favors her left side, the hip she landed on.
I hurry to catch up with her.
“Please,” I say. “I’m sorry. About earlier. I shouldn’t have run off. I should have checked on you.”
Clara stops and turns so fast I almost collide with her.
Her eyes are blazing. A spark of anger I haven’t seen in years.
“You think this is about you running off?” she asks. “You think this is about a bruised hip?”
“I—”
“You didn’t even look at me,” Clara says. Her voice trembles. “I punched a guy for you, Sedona. I hit a man twice my size because he was talking trash about you. And when he shoved me into the dirt, you know what you did?”
I flinch. “I?—”
