More than the cold floor.
More than the rope around Mama’s wrists.
More than the way my arm hurts every time I move it.
Mama’s sitting against the wall with her head tipped to the side and her hair covering part of her face. Her hands are tied in front of her, and there’s a blanket over her legs, but it’s not enough.
I know it’s not enough because her fingers are too pale. Even her nose is losing color.
“Mama,” I whisper, touching her cheek.
She doesn’t move.
My throat gets tight.
“Mama, wake up. Please.”
Nothing.
I look toward the stairs.
The door at the top is shut, but I can hear him moving around up there.
Rory.
I don’t like his name anymore.
I used to like Rory.
He gave me fruit snacks sometimes when Mama wasn’t looking. He helped fix fences at the sanctuary. He knew which horses liked peppermints and which ones got mad if youbrushed their bellies. He was there so much that he felt like part of my family.
But he shot my Uncle Steffy.
He doesn’t feel like my family anymore.
The door opens at the top of the stairs, and I stand in front of Mama as fast as I can.
It makes my hurt arm scream, but I don’t care.
Rory comes down carrying a bottle of water and a bag of pretzels.
“You should sit down, Livy,” he says.
“My name is Olivia.”
He stops on the bottom step.
For a second, his face does something weird.
Like I hurt his feelings.
Good.
“You always liked Livy,” he says softly.
“I like it when my friends call me that.”
His mouth tightens.
