Page 40 of Dizzy

“BB ain’t gonna kill this raccoon. We’ll go down to the tractor supply tomorrow. Get some coyote urine.”

“We could get the .22.” Carson’s not letting this go.

“You plannin’ on eatin’ racoon? We’ll use coyote urine.”

Carson finally nods in reluctant agreement. This is a strange conversation.

Dizzy leads me down the hall.

“Aren’t I supposed to do the cleaning up? As the house mouse?” I don’t want to, but earning my keep is ingrained in me.

“Boys need responsibility. You can do the laundry tomorrow. Ain’t none of us can fold worth a damn.” Dizzy gestures me through the door next to the master suite.

As soon as I cross the threshold, the smell hits me. Little kid funk. It’s as if stickiness were a scent. I’m so tired, though, I can hardly care.

All the leftover adrenaline from earlier in the day seeped away hours ago. My muscles are stiff again. Guess it’ll take more than one hot shower to ease the ache of sleeping on the frozen ground for a week.

The twin bed is unmade. I don’t see a pillow. There’s a flat sheet, but no comforter.

I pick my way through Legos and wadded-up dirty clothes. The only thing I want is to crash on this bed and pass out. I’m not even worried about Dizzy watching me. I’m bone-deep exhausted.

I plop down on the mattress and fall back.

“My door’ll be open tonight.” He’s looming in the doorway, his face turned hard.

“Okay.”

“Don’t try to sneak out.”

“Okay.” I’m not going anywhere. This room is toasty warm. The vent is right next to the bed.

“If you run, I can’t help you. The club will come after you. They will find you. If they think you’re a threat, you’ll disappear. Understand?”

His face is tight. Worried. That I’m gonna run? That his club will hunt me down? I am way too tired to sort it out. I’m sure I’ll be scared as shit tomorrow, but right now he needs to zip it.

“I won’t go anywhere. Just let me sleep.” It comes out a grumble. My eyelids are too heavy to keep open. I curl onto my side, tuck my knees to my chest.

Dizzy tromps off down the hall. A minute later, right as I’m drifting off, he comes back. He steps on something, there’s a crunch, and he mutters, “Damn it.”

Then he covers me with a thick quilt that smells like lavender. I’m too far gone to say thank you, but I offer him a sleepy smile. He traces the scar bisecting my lips with a calloused finger.

“Don’t run, Fay-Lee.”

“All right.”

I fall asleep with the ghost of his touch on my mouth.

* * *

When I wake up,the clock on the wall reads almost eleven o’clock. I think. Instead of numbers, there are various makes and models of muscle car. It’s forty-five minutes past a Ford Fairlane.

My body is wrung out. The scratches on my legs are sore. My stomach’s growling. Last night’s dinner must’ve stretched it out. The knot in Sharon’s yoga pants came loose, so my drawers are around my ankles. Thank the Lord the door’s closed. I kicked off the quilt in the middle of the night.

Overall, I’m disoriented. Off-kilter. I strain my ears. The house is quiet.

There’s a piggy bank shaped like a pit bull on Parker’s desk.

Nah. I’ve not sunk so low as stealing from a kid. Not yet.The club will come after you. They will find you. If they think you’re a threat, you’ll disappear.

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