Page 202 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
But I still hear so much.
“They’re those missing kids.” The girl in the driver’s seat calls out. “Don’t let them get away.”
“I just want to help,” the guy says, and I spin a little, taking note of his hands up because I can’t tell from his face if he’s lying.
My eyes stall on his shirt. The blue checkered pattern and the sleeves rolled up to his elbow feel familiar in some way. I search through memories, and so many horrible things fill my mind, but Chuckles never ever wore checkered shirts. He was always in polka dots and stripes.
The shirt looks like one Daddy wears.
“He’s wearing Daddy’s shirt! It’s a sign.”
My words mean nothing to Ambrose as his bare feet edge backward—one step, two steps, three steps, sprint.
“Stop!” I try again.
He shakes his head. His body is tiring, but he continues just at a slower pace.
Four people jump from the truck, leaving it empty and running, with all the doors open. One girl is dressed in an open coat and a dress that is much cleaner than mine, and I like the white frills along the bottom and how it looks with her ankle boots.
Worry fills my head over the germs on my dress, pressed against Ambrose’s skin. They’ll hurt his mind. It’ll be my fault.
I don’t want to hurt him.
I never want to hurt him.
Pulling my thoughts away, I look at the two teenage boys catching up and the girls behind, the one in the pretty dress running our way too, and the driver hanging around by her truck, talking to someone on her phone.
I can’t make out what she says because my eyes move to her truck. The fancy pinkish color makes me smile.
I don’t notice the guys are in touching distance until their shadows stand over me.
I don’t notice the snow wetting my dress or the backs of my legs.
I only see Ambrose.
“You listened.” I smile at him, sitting below me on the ground. His grip loosens slightly.
My eyes move to him, the pretty heart in his eyes disappearing as they roll in his head, and his body falls away from mine. “Ambrose? Ambrose!”
CHAPTER 49
Ambrose—age nine
Agroggy feeling holds me hostage, making my surroundings a blur of blue and white.
Big fingers maul me, prodding all over. They are a small distraction from the sterile scent that burns my nose, but not the blinding lights that shine down on me as I blink to clear my eyes.
It turns out that blue is the sad color that they’ve painted the walls of this hospital room that I face while resting on my side. The white is the blanket I lie beneath and the coat of the doctor who looms over me.
I blink again at the thought,am I really here? Did the teens bring us here?
I wiggle my toes to make sure that’s something I can still do.
They no longer feel icy cold.
The light above torments my adjusting eyes and highlights each bruise that the doctor’s hand runs along as he examines my arm, where there are newer injuries. Most of my burns are already bandaged, but they still hurt, and the swelling in my hand is painful as I find the strength and bat him away with the back of that hand.
With a struggle, I push myself up. The screaming pain in my head drags me back down.
