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Her mom started putting bacon on a plate, then layered the pancakes on a large platter. Becca wasn’t surprised to find food coloring smiley faces on hers. She didn’t know who was going to eat all this food.
Someone knocked on the door.
Becca’s heart leapt into her throat. Chris? Hunter?
Her mom frowned and put the mixing bowl in the sink. “Who knocks on the door at seven-thirty on a Saturday?”
Becca shoved out of her chair and nearly ran down the hallway to the foyer.
“Slow down, Becca,” said her mother. “Are you expecting someone?”
Becca ignored her and threw open the door.
Then she stopped short. “Michael.”
His jeans and boots were filthy and caked with mud, along with some darker spots that looked like dried blood. Something big had bitten his right forearm and hadn’t wanted to let go. Scrapes encircled his wrist and traced the tendons along the back of his hand. A nasty cut started over one eye and led into his hairline, backed by a harsh bruise.
“What happened?” she whispered.
His eyes were wary and guarded and almost feral, and Becca watched him glance from her to her mother and back. “I think I need you to tell me that.”
“Becca,” said her mother. “Do you know this boy?”
Her brain stumbled over the word boy, but Becca nodded. “Yeah. Yes. I do.” She struggled to find a way to explain Michael—and how he looked. “He’s—well—”
“Come inside.” Her mom pulled the door wider. “Let’s go in the kitchen.”
“No,” said Michael. “I can’t stay here. I just need—”
“You just need to get in here and sit down.” Her mom gave him a once-over. “How long ago did this happen?”
“Look,” he growled. “I’m fine—”
“Get in here.” Her mom stood back and pointed to the kitchen. “I’m not sending a kid back on the road looking like you do.” Her mom was in full ER nurse mode—using the voice she typically saved for drug addicts and unruly street kids with war wounds.
“I’m not a kid,” he snapped. Becca winced.
But her mother stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. At least have a cup of coffee and an aspirin.”
Maybe it was touching him that did it. Michael seemed to deflate a bit, and Becca could feel his hesitation in the air.
“Come on,” her mom said again. “I think I left the stove on anyway.”
Then she was bustling back down the hall, and Michael was stepping across the threshold. He bent to work his boot laces. There was another scrape on his side, another line of blood. She winced and wondered if she should offer to help him.
He glanced up. “Why do you have Chris’s phone?”
“He gave it to me. At the dance.” She paused, feeling her throat tighten. “You haven’t seen him?”
Michael stepped out of his boots and straightened. It stole an inch from his height, and seeing him standing there in his socks made him just a little less intimidating.
“No.” His voice was a bit softer, a bit less gruff. “I haven’t seen any of them.”
She stared up at him, holding his eyes. In that moment, she figured out what was behind all that anger and aggression: fear. Vulnerability. Her mom had called him a kid on the porch, and for the first time, Becca realized he wasn’t that much older than she was.
Michael must have seen her expression soften, because he walled that emotion back up and looked away. “This is stupid.” He reached for his boots. “I should be looking—”
“Hey.” She caught his forearm. Michael was the only person who might be able to help. “Come sit down. Maybe we can figure it out.”
