“Do you have a program for volunteers?” Yes. Volunteer work. That would keep her busy.
Lily beamed again. “Yes, we have Safe Play.”
“Safe Play?" The name sounded weird. What did that have to do with recovery?
“It’s a childcare program for outpatient parents,” Lily explained. “While parents attend meetings or have appointments with their counselors, their kids stay in Safe Play with our volunteers.”
Wren felt stunned. “Parents bring their kids to the recovery center?”
Lily nodded. “Addiction affects everyone in the family. Especially kids. They know the recovery center is a safe place. A lot of them have suffered neglect and abuse.”
The blood drained from her face. To Wren, it felt like every drop of it left her head and filled her stomach.
“For some of the younger ones, Safe Play may be their first interaction with adults they can trust,” Lily continued, her speech sounding polished and practiced. “Would you like to fill out a volunteer application? Of course, we do have to perform a background check—”
“No,” Wren muttered, backing away. “Not today.”
“Well, just think about it. We do need volunteers every day and—”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks,” Wren called over her shoulder as she pushed open the door and caught a gust of fresh air into her lungs.
She passed up the Mustang and realized she couldn’t make herself get in. The space was too small, so she turned right and started walking up Vermillion Street instead. Wren saw trees across the street, so she sped through the crosswalk to reach them, a young willow, and a younger elderberry, not even big enough for a child to climb.
Crossing South Washington, she headed for the lawn of the federal courthouse where a row of live oaks shaded the green. They weren’t fully mature, but their branches were low enough to grab. Wren stepped into the grass, reached up to the lowest limb, and gripped it with both hands. She closed her eyes and felt the veins of bark against her fingers. The touched centered her and allowed her lungs to fill.
From the time she was six, Wren could climb up the live oak in Simon Mouton’s back yard and into his treehouse. The platform might have only been sixteen square feet, a mere five feet off the ground, but to Wren, it was a castle in the clouds. Simon and Wren and Janie Bell, who lived across the street, spent summer afternoons playing fort or sea explorers or spaceship up in that treehouse.
The first time Wren scrambled up the tree in the dark of night, her heartbeat and choked breath had drowned out the screech of cicadas in the humid air. She climbed barefoot in nothing but her nightgown…
Her panties were under a cushion in the couch where Darryl had stashed them.
It was the fifth time. The fifth time he’d left Laurie in the bedroom. The fifth time he’d anchored her down as she lay on the couch. The fifth time he’d pulled off her cotton underwear.
But this time, before his fingers could creep between her legs, Laurie made a noise that scared him. Darryl shot off her and into the bathroom faster than a lightning flash. And Wren ran. But quietly. As quietly as she could.
She padded down the wooden steps of their apartment, flew through the wet grass of Mamaw and Papaw’s backyard, and scrambled over the fence into Simon’s. Lying on her belly on the floor of the treehouse, she saw the door to the apartment open. The light from the streetlamp cast a glow over its front steps, and Darryl crept outside, His undershirt was back on, and his jeans were zipped up. She watched him peer over the edge of the railing, looking left and right for her. She watched him light a cigarette and lean against the banister, running his thumb and forefinger over his scratchy blond moustache. She watched him swat away a mosquito at his shoulder, and that’s when she felt the first bite on the back of her calf.
But Wren didn’t move.
Darryl must have thought she’d come back because, after he finished that first cigarette, he lit another. And then another. While he smoked, mosquitoes landed on her and bit. Bite after bite. When he finally went back inside, Wren slapped and slapped at her arms and legs. She tucked her feet into her nightgown, drew her hair around her face like a scarf, and pulled her arms into her sleeves.
They still bit her forehead. Her nose. Her neck.
But it was better than Darryl…
“Wren? Is that you?”
Wren opened her eyes, dropped her hands from the oak branch, and spun around.
Oh God, no.
“Wren? Are you okay?” Lee Hawthorne shouted to her from his white Jeep, which was stopped in the middle of Vermilion Street. In the next instant, he wedged the Jeep into the parking space in front of her, facing the wrong way.
She started back for her Mustang before his feet hit the pavement. But in seconds, he was in front of her on the sidewalk blocking her path. “Wren, wait.”
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Wren pulled her pepper spray out of her bag and held it up to him. His eyes went wide, and he stepped back.
Lee’s hands flew up. “I won’t. I promise. Just give me two minutes."
