— Three days, Bear said. Had to move you. Some unfriendly people started asking questions at the hospital.
Colton scooted closer. His fingers found mine. They were warm and a little sticky, the way children’s fingers always are.
— I was so scared, Mommy.
The word hit me like a sixth bullet.
— Sweetheart, I’m a social worker. I help children, but I’m not—
— Yes, you are. His grip tightened. You saved me like a mommy would. You got hurt to keep me safe. That’s what mommies do.
He launched himself from the chair and wrapped his arms around my neck. Pain shot through my healing wounds, but it was nothing compared to the sound of his voice.
— You’re my mommy now. You can’t leave me like she did. Please don’t make me go away. I’ll be good. I promise I’ll be good.
I looked past him to the man called Bear. Something shifted behind his eyes. Something old and heavy that he kept buried beneath the leather and the authority.
— Please don’t send me away, Colton whispered.
I lifted one arm, ignoring the fire in my shoulder. I placed it around his back and felt his heartbeat, fast and frightened and young.
— I’m not going anywhere, Colton. I promise.
Bear watched us from his chair. His hand moved to his vest pocket, where a creased photograph lived in the dark. His fingers pressed against it like a man touching a wound to see if it still hurt.
He didn’t say anything. But I saw it. The man who had just saved my life was carrying a secret so heavy it was crushing him from the inside.
Three days later, I found out what it was. And nothing—nothing—was ever the same.
THREE DAYS LATER
The warehouse had become a strange kind of home. Not the kind I ever imagined for myself—the kind with industrial ceilings and concrete floors and the constant low hum of generators—but a home nonetheless. Colton had claimed a corner near my bed, where he arranged his growing collection of treasures: a smooth stone Moose had found for him, a crayon that still had its paper wrapper, a stuffed bear with one missing eye that someone had produced from nowhere.w
I was learning the rhythms of the place. The way Griff checked my bandages every morning with the same quiet efficiency, his military training showing in the economy of his movements. The way Fielding, despite his broken leg, insisted on reading to Colton from a battered paperback of The Hobbit, doing different voices for each character. The way the men rotated guard shifts without being told, their boots soft on the concrete, their eyes always scanning.
And I was learning Harlon.
