Page 92 of Raised By Wolves

The chief leans against the bars of our cell as he considers this. He doesn’t look thrilled about bringing Wendy to his house. Maybe it’s because the whole situation is wild and totally overwhelming, or maybe it’s because a couple of hours ago, they almost shot each other.

Probably it’s both.

“You know what Lacey would say,” I press. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“Please,” Holo begs. “Wendy doesn’t have anywhere to go now. Neither do we—unless you let us stay.”

The chief sighs. He swings the cell door wide open and then turns around and starts to walk away from us. “Fine,” he calls. “You can all stay for now. Until whatever happens next.”

Holo grins happily. “What’s going to happen next?”

Wendy just looks down at the floor. I think she’s crying again.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But we’re going to face it together.”

CHAPTER 72

THE CRAZY THING is that I go back to school the next day as if everything’s totally normal. As if our whole world hadn’t been taken away from us by a posse of dudes with guns and a couple of uptight FBI agents.

At the door of room 112, Ms. Tillman greets me with a smile. “How’s your brother doing?” she asks. “I miss having him in class.”

Hmmm, let’s see. He spent more time in jail, he’s lost his childhood home, and he’s probably going to be put in foster care.

“He’s fine,” I say. Why upset her when she can’t do anything about it?

Waylon comes in just as the bell rings and flops down next to me. “That scene in the woods was crazy,” he whispers. He scoots his desk a few inches closer. “When they put you in that chopper, I was afraid I was never going to see you again.”

“Pretty soon you might not,” I say grimly. Bartsville. Where the hell is Bartsville?

“What did the FBI want with—”

“Waylon Meloy,” Ms. Tillman warns. “Please close your mouth, open your notebook, and start working.”

“Sorry, Ms. T,” Waylon grumbles.

He starts dutifully scribbling. I assume he’s working on the figurative language essays we’re supposed to be writing, but a few seconds later, a note lands on my desk.

Remember when I stopped that guy from shooting you? Want to go to the dance with me?

P.S. “Yes” is the correct answer to both of these questions.

I get the same feeling in my stomach that I used to get when I jumped off of high river banks in the summer. A queasy giddiness. A thrilling panic.

Of course I remember how he stepped in between me and a gun. And how he kept me from running away.

I remember every moment I’ve spent with him, ever since that day I saw his slow, teasing smile for the first time.

But underneath his messy cursive, I write:I thought the dance already happened.

He scribbles back.I got the date wrong. So… what do you say?

I don’t want to say no, but I’m scared to say yes.

Then another piece of paper lands on my desk.

It says:Well?

I ignore it. A few moments later, another note skitters across my page.

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