out in the first place. When you have nothing, you don’t exactly want to be reminded of the time you had everything.
It gets easier, though. The words start to roll into sentences, and sentences into scenes, until it doesn’t matter that I don’t remember exactly what he wrote for us because I have enough blooming inside my head to fill in the cracks and blanks. Greenwood is a garden where everything grows, even ideas, even us.
I talk until my throat hurts, closing my eyes to picture the stories that much better. The clock tick-tick-ticks, matching my pace. I don’t stop, though, not when I go to get the last water bottle, not when it starts getting so dark that I have to turn on the flashlight lantern. My stomach rumbles, and I laugh, turning it into sound effects for the story of a huge storm that swept in one day and nearly washed the three of us away.
But I do run out of steam eventually; the tickle in my throat turns into scratchiness, and I can’t ignore the way my stomach is tight with hunger. It’s getting late—where’s Sam?
“You must think I’m crazy—”
I look over at Lucas and the words catch in my throat.
He’s looking back.
He is looking right at me.
His throat is moving, like he’s working himself up to speak.
“Luc?” I say. “Lucas?”
There’s something in his eyes—something bright that flickers there and is gone. But I saw it, I know it was there, I know he is there—
I can’t help it, my hands reach out for him before I can stop myself. And, just like that, whatever spell I managed to cast is shattered. He pulls away, pressing himself against the firm back of the couch, and looks ready to snap at me if I bring my fingers too close. Message received.
I step back from the couch, showing him I won’t follow through, no matter how much I want to. It’s such a small thing, that one look, but I swear, he saw me. He recognized me.
Recognized what I was saying?
If these people, the ones who trained him to hate and dread Mom and Dad so much—even the idea of them—who did their best to stain his old life, turn it so ugly he can’t even stand to think about it…My mind races, trying to assemble the pieces before I drop them again. They would have had access to information about our family. The house where we lived, the names of families, even pictures, the schools he went to…but they wouldn’t ever know about Greenwood, would they? They wouldn’t know to turn that place into a kingdom of thorns.
This is our way in, I think, letting my feet carry me back and forth across the floor, behind the couch. I look at the kitchen door again; I’m waiting to pounce on Sam when she comes through, waiting to tell her what I discovered. We can try it again together, see if we can draw Lucas out and get him to say whatever it was he was trying to before. I feel as light as dust, like I’m about to scatter and float to the ceiling.
I know where we have to go.
But Sam still isn’t home.
I listen for the car engine, wait for the lights to flash through lace curtains in the front windows. The hours stretch on into the night and my patience is about to stretch into fear when I hear the jangle and scratch of keys in the door.
Sam is barely inside, locking the door behind her, when I launch myself at her.
“You said you’d be home by dinnertime!” I hate the way my words come out like a whine. Sam startles violently; the plastic bag bursts as it hits the floor, and cans go rolling in every direction. She actually clutches at her chest, like she has to catch her heart before it goes leaping out of her.
“I know, I’m sorry,” she breathes out. We both bend to scoop up the food. She’s found soup, mostly, and beans, and a jar of peanut butter. All of which sound a thousand times better than the nothing I’ve had to eat since this morning.
Sam cringes as she steps forward to put everything down on the counter.
“Are you okay? What happened?” I ask. Her limp is worse—it looks like it hurts her just to stand.
“I told you I might be late,” she says, with an edge to her voice. “I had to drive halfway across the state to find