“That’s the third time you’ve asked that question.” Too many years of drinking and too many years of smoking has damaged his throat. He used to have a smooth tone that I would sit by his feet and listen to, but that, like so many other things in my life, is in the past.

My eyelids flutter open and a weathered man sits by my bedside. He wears a Marine Corps baseball cap and the Bible is in his hands. I squint as I try to understand where I’m at and why. Something happened. Something I should remember...

“You were shot, Abby.”

A throb in my brain. Damn. Just damn. “Bet that wasn’t the first time you told me that.”

He closes the yellowed-paged book. “It’s not. You wake up. Go back to sleep. Over and over again. You look seventeen in your sleep.”

“And not like a monster,” I finish for him. Too many fights between us have caused me to memorize the ending. “Did you claim me or will the good people of child protective services be here to sweep me up into their beams of rainbows?”

My great-uncle Mac bows his head like he’s in prayer. He probably is. When he’s not sipping on whiskey, pretending to be drunk, really drunk, fixing cars or missing his wife, he prays for me. Mac’s one of the real people—both good and bad, both the villain and the hero.

It must be genetic.

“I claimed you,” he said.

My eyes drift closed as I breathe out in relief. He may not agree with my method, but he appreciates the results of my life. “Thank you.”

“If I could exorcise the demon from your soul, I would,” he says as I begin to fade back into the comforting darkness.

“If you could exorcise my demons, I’d willingly tie myself to the cross.” I lick my dry lips and an important memory surfaces. “I had to tell someone.”

Mac sighs deeply. “Someone you trust?”

“More than Isaiah.”

“You could have told me.”

“Can’t. Got to protect you. Got to protect her. They have to think we hate each other.”

He gruffly chuckles. “We do hate each other.”

My mouth twitches up. “See, the plan worked.” And the brief humor dies. “I’m sorry, but it’s not safe. You being here isn’t safe.”

“I’m safe enough. Go to sleep, Abigail, and let me finish Thessalonians.”

I snuggle the best I can under the thin blanket. “Tell them I want Jell-O. The red kind and tell Isaiah I want a bunny. Big and fluffy and with huge ears.”

“The type you had when you were five?” There’s a quiet laughter in his voice.

That’s exactly the bunny I want and I also want my dad and my old life back.

Logan

“Why did you drive all the way back to Bullitt County?” Mom’s voice is high enough in pitch my ears ring and my eyes snap open. “You should have slept over at my place.”

Mom plops down on my bed and messes with my hair. “You should have called me. I would have been with you at the hospital. You shouldn’t have been alone.”

Damn. She knows about Abby. I rub the sleep out of my eyes before checking out the clock. It’s eleven in the morning and I’m rolling out of bed. Shit. I overslept. Dad’s going to be a powder keg. “The appointment.” The specialist about my diabetes.

“I rescheduled it.” Dad has a hip cocked in my doorway looking as dead as I feel. He’s in a pair of sweatpants and a white undershirt. Appears I’m not the only one Mom bulldozed out of a deep sleep.

Dizziness disorients me. With Mom in my room, even with her words, I thought I was in her apartment in Louisville. A quick scan confirms I’m at Dad’s. A stack of award medals grouped together near trophies on the floor. My dresser. My mirror. My bed stand. Dirty clothes in piles mixed with piles of clean ones. Not much else.

Mom decorates for me at her place because I refuse to do it for myself. My current room in her apartment has wind chimes. Damned if I know why.

I set my feet on the floor and scratch my bare chest before picking up my cell. Two new messages. One from Noah. The other from Isaiah. Both saying the same thing. Abby’s out of Recovery and sleeping on and off, but when she wakes she is in pain.

Pain.

I don’t like Abby in pain.

“You okay, Logan?” Mom asks.

No, I’m not. Where Dad can smell blood sugar issues, Mom can sense emotion and I’m not in the mood for her to pick at my internal wounds. “Mind giving me a few minutes?”

“It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked if that’s what you’re concerned about. I did breast-feed you.”

The wince was internal and external. Not sure what either of those has to do with the other, but I stopped trying to figure out Mom’s mind years ago. Plus, I’m not naked. I’ve got boxers on, yet I glance up at Dad, begging him to get her out of here.

Dad shrugs an I’m-sorry and I shrug an I-get-it.

“Let’s give him some room, Kayleigh.”

The bed shakes as Mom stands and she positions herself in front of me, tipping my chin up with her hand. She has brown eyes, crazy curly blond hair, a crystal around her neck, a cotton dress with flowers on it and she wears midforties well. Better than most. What creates an ache is that Mom’s not her constant beam of sunshine and I hate that I scared her. It’s not an emotion she knows how to handle.

“Are you hurt?”

“I need to test.” And this part of my life makes her uncomfortable.