Tigers, Not Daughters - Samantha Mabry Page 0,6

worst of all, a kid out on her bike.

Jessica’s old white Civic was there, too, in the middle of the road, with the driver’s-side door flung open. She must’ve been coming home from work on a break. For a panicked moment Iridian was convinced that she was the one Rafe had hit.

All around Jessica’s car were other cars. The people in them were honking their horns, shouting, waving their arms out the window; but what they weren’t doing was moaning in pain or calling for help.

Iridian wove through the cars and saw Jessica—her dark hair and the blue of her work shirt. She was crouched down in the intersection next to their dad. He was sitting in the middle of the road in his work coveralls. Sitting and sobbing.

“My girl!” he wailed. “My beautiful girl!”

Jessica had her arms around her dad’s shoulders and was talking to him, trying to calm him down, but he didn’t seem to realize she was there. Behind them, the green Ford pickup was parked at a diagonal, taking up most of the intersection. Its driver’s-side door was open. The engine was still running, so Iridian went over and yanked the keys from the ignition.

“My baby.” Rafe collapsed to the side, his face landing hard against the hot asphalt. He closed his eyes. Iridian thought that maybe he’d passed out, but then he curled himself into a ball and started muttering to himself.

“Christ,” Jessica said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

A long stripe of blood was on the road close to the Ford’s front bumper, but from what Iridian could see of her dad’s hands, legs, arms, and face, he wasn’t hurt.

“Iridian!” someone yelled. “Get your father and his truck out of the damn road!”

Iridian turned, grateful for the distraction. Old Mr. Garza was in his idling pickup on the other side of the intersection. His wife was in the passenger seat. They were both dressed for afternoon mass. Mrs. Garza’s arms were folded across her chest, and she was giving Iridian her very best, most judgmental glare.

Just beyond the Garzas’ truck, a flash of red caught Iridian’s eye. It was Rosa. She’d run into the yard of a nearby house. Iridian watched her sister land on her knees in front of a large wheat-colored dog. The dog was on its side, breathing fast. Rosa put her hand gently on its body, against its rib cage, and when she pulled it away, there was blood—blood from the dog, blood on the street.

Rosa looked up—to Iridian, and then past her sister and around. Iridian followed the direction of Rosa’s gaze and saw that the entire neighborhood had come out to witness the hideous spectacle of the Torres girls and their father. There were the Matas. Mrs. Moreno. The Johnsons. The Avilas. Hector Garcia from across the street and the boys who hung out at his house all hours of the day and night. Teddy Arenas was in his driveway, leaning against his perpetually broken-down Dodge Charger and drinking a beer. Even Kitty Bolander, the little girl Ana used to babysit, had come up on her bike.

Iridian closed her eyes and gulped, trying to calm down and also magically will the day to start over. When she opened her eyes, there was Rosa again. Her hands were back on the dog. She’d tossed her hair over one shoulder and was lowering her ear against the animal’s side. It was only a matter of seconds before Iridian saw the dog shudder, all the way from its nose to the tip of its tail, as if a current had passed through it.

In that same moment, Rafe mumbled, “Ana, my heart.”

Sirens bleated in the near distance, which meant that someone had called 9-1-1. Even more people had come out of their houses or stopped their cars along the side streets, attracted to this awful scene like flies on a fresh kill. They were all murmuring, buzzing. Iridian tried to take a big breath in, but the air was thick with exhaust. She erupted into a coughing fit.

“Dad, come on!” Jessica pled. “You have to move. Iridian, help!”

Jessica stood and started tugging on Rafe’s limp arm. She was crying. The once-perfect black rims around