1. Rayna I see him.

But I pretend I don’t.

He’s gotten better at hiding, and so quickly. Now it’s a challenge to spot him.

It doesn’t help that he has a new truck. I was looking for his old Camaro. I panic a little when I don’t see it. Maybe he’s become more desperate and found a better, closer, darker place to hide.

He’s right there, everywhere I go. On my way to work, when the roads are crammed with last-minute drivers all fighting and screaming at their steering wheels with their coffee breath.

On my way home, when the roads are lined with children and school buses and the drivers are playing that game in their heads. That pedestrian one where groups are fifty points, elderly are ten points, an adult is twenty points, and a child is zero points.

In his old Camaro, on early mornings when the roads were just waking up, he hung back.

Not far enough to lose me, but far enough where it could be any car back there, with its two headlights. But I knew it was him. When the streets were full, he was closer. Maybe behind that minivan, riding close. Close enough that his little f-body would disappear behind all the flailing children ignoring their headrest movie screens.

A lane change locates him for me. A sudden merge lane, temporarily set up for some minor work around a manhole, and he’s forced in behind me. That big pickup truck. It suits him.

Wonder where the old Camaro went?

I see him. But I pretend I don’t.

It’s better that way. Safer. If I were to catch his gaze in my rearview, act surprised, signal him to pull over and chat, he’d get better at hiding. I wouldn’t be able to spot him anymore. I park in my usual spot. He parks in his, in the office complex across the street. His truck is gone by the time I peek through the window not far from my desk. Three hours go by. I’m watching the clock, waiting. A call comes in, a local number.

It’s business. I handle it while watching my phone screen, waiting for another line to flash. In five minutes, there it is. That unknown caller. Every day around this time. I hurry off the other line to get to it. Not that I need to, it’ll keep right on ringing until I answer. But I never let it go beyond five rings. Four is too short, six too many.

“Hello?” I don’t bother with my usual answering spiel, how can I help you, and all that. I gave up after the sixth occurrence. It’s always silent. Eerily silent. I’ve never heard so much as a breath, a shuffle, a crackle of interference.

I’ll bet anything he mutes his side so he can say everything he longs to, to pretend I can hear him, to hope it accidently gets unmuted and he’s revealed, saving him from his guilt.

I miss you. Why did you leave me? You look beautiful today. You know I love how good blue looks on you.

Something like that. I imagine the strained sound of his voice, the tears choking his words. I let him hear the little sob that escapes me, a dry one, not too much for anyone else to notice. It’s just for him. I wonder what he thinks when he hears it. He certainly wouldn’t think it’s fear. He has no idea I’m aware of all this. I’ve made sure he’s oblivious to my awareness.

Does he think I’m using this little phone glitch issue as a reprieve? Am I merely letting out a little pent-up anguish while no one’s looking? Does he think that I’m miserable and sad because

I hate this job, my apartment, my boyfriend? He’s not wrong.

I have the urge to run to him as I pull into my apartment parking lot. He’s six rows back in an apartment building farther down. He wouldn’t try to flee. How could he? I’d pin him with my gaze, and he’d sit there, squirming beneath it until I tapped on his window.

When I’m in my apartment and settled, keys here, shoes there, that’s when he leaves. His exhaust makes a distinct faint rumble. I’m able to recognize him by the sound now. He won’t be back until late tonight, one last round before a few hours of sleep and he’ll be back, my morning commute caboose.

Greg is passed out on the sofa by nine. I stare off in the distance, out the window, looking, but he isn’t out there.

That faint rumble returns later that night, when Greg and I have slipped into bed. I smile when I hear it. Greg doesn’t notice, he’s a little too distracted. I wonder, what time is it? I wonder what thoughts are going through his mind right about now.

He can see it. The little jiggle of the blinds as the headboard rocks into them. I know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, where his hands are and what they’re doing.

I imagine I am him, watching the headboard knock the blinds. I feel his large hands tearing my sundress. His breath fogs the windshield. I see the darkness tainting his eyes, the blood drying over his left eye, a little around his lips. I imagine his eyes looking tainted like that right now. I imagine him thinking himself in this room, feeling his slick hands becoming something else. The orgasm startles me. Like a sneeze before the dust can tickle. I almost apologize. I almost expect Greg to say Bless you.

2. Banana Shoes

In the beginning, there was darkness. Infinite darkness.

“What’s your favorite day of the week, class?” Miss Steiner asks us. Everyone jumps from their seats with raised hands and waving fingers. I shrink into my yellow plastic chair with the wobbling, uneven legs. Sometimes I like to try to balance between two legs at once. It’s a game to keep the other two legs from touching the ground for as long as possible. I make it three clicks on the clock before Miss Steiner calls on me.

“What’s your favorite day of the week?” She repeats her question, pointing at me. I squirm when everyone stares as if they’ve never seen me before. Hi, I’m Dave, I think back at them. My name is not Dave.

My name is Damian.

“Monday,” I say. It’s the best day of them all. Or so I thought. Everyone starts laughing and whispering. My ears feel like they have fire on them.

“Quiet down, everyone. Why is that, Damian? What do you like so much about

Mondays?” Miss Steiner asks. She has curly red hair and swamp-colored eyes of brown and green dead muck. When she bends down to me, I count the freckles on her face.

“Because I can see all my friends.” One. Two. Three, four, five, six. She frowns at me.

She knows I’m lying. Seven. Eight. There’s an extra big freckle on her right cheek that I count as three. The other kids make funny noises with their hands waving in the air like dead tree branches on a windy day.

Everyone answers Saturday or Sunday. A few love today, Friday, because it’s family game night at their houses. I wonder if that means they all sit around and watch The Game

Channel on TV. I don’t think we get The Game Channel. I’m not allowed to touch the TV.

Everyone likes weekends because there’s no school. I hate weekends. I get so hungry on weekends. On Mondays, I like to ride the early bus so I can sit in the empty classroom with Miss

Steiner. Sometimes she gives me half of her muffin or part of her banana.

Once when she wasn’t looking, before the rest of the class came in, I pulled the banana peel from the trash after she threw it away. Before the late bell rang, I ran as fast as I could to hide in the bathroom.

Banana peels taste like shoes somebody rubbed banana flavoring on.

Today’s lunch is pizza and applesauce and juice. When no one is looking, I’m going to put the applesauce and juice in my shirt for this weekend. We all stand single file at the door.

Miss Steiner squeezes my shoulder when she walks by doing a head count. I hope she doesn’t see the face I make when it hurts. In the cafeteria line, where the food smells are like perfume on the big lunch ladies, I’m handed a tray with a rectangle of pizza, a milk, and a cup of applesauce.

Men don’t cry. Ever.

There’s no lid on the applesauce. If I put it in my shirt now, it’ll get all over the place. I can’t take the milk home either. The cafeteria gets blurry, everything looking like blobs to my tear-filled eyes. I follow a blob to sit at a bigger blob. I took milk home once. I kept it in my backpack until I couldn’t stand the hunger anymore and drank it in one gulp one Saturday night. I spent the rest of the weekend running to the bathroom whenever he wasn’t in there. I threw up so much. I didn’t know I had all that in my tummy. It felt like everything I ever ate.

Friday night is when it gets bad. My tummy screams and rolls around looking for something to gnaw on. But if I don’t eat anything all night it gets better by Saturday morning.

That’s when my tummy stops waiting for me to feed it and goes to sleep until Monday. I sleep a lot on Sundays. If we get extra days off school, my tummy wakes up and feeds on itself. I can feel it take big bites out of my other organs and muscles. It likes to eat a lot on those school breaks, and it hurts so bad.

We don’t have school Monday because it’s spring or something. That means we get a week of no school. That’s a long time to wait till lunch. I don’t want my tummy to eat my insides again, but if I can’t take the applesauce or the milk home, I might have to make a homemade pie.

They are so gross, but they make my tummy stop hurting. Sometimes I make them with the dirt in Mrs. Patchkin’s garden. It doesn’t taste as bad and doesn’t have as many bugs as the dirt in our yard.

I haven’t eaten my pizza yet, and half the kids are already running to play outside. But if I eat slow, maybe my tummy won’t get so mad at me. Brady is sitting across from me. He’s looking at my pizza like he will drool if he doesn’t look away. His mommy makes his lunches.

Today it looks like a turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato and pickles.

“Wanna trade?” I push my tray at him and hope he says yes. His eyes get all wide and he practically throws the sandwich at me. His mommy even cut it in half. The bread is dark and funny-looking and has all the crust on it, but I eat half of it before I remember I was gonna savor it. Brady eats my lunch like he never tasted nothing so good. His mommy wrapped the sandwich in funny crinkly paper that makes a bunch of noise when I wrap the other half. But no one cares. No one ever does. I slip the sandwich under my shirt into my big jeans pocket and run.

I hide it in my backpack between my math and science books.

I don’t eat it that night. I wait till my tummy goes to sleep before I pull it from my backpack. It smells a little funny and the lettuce looks sad, but I savor it. It makes the shakes come back by nighttime, but they go away when I go to sleep.

“Why the hell aren’t you at school?” His yell wakes me and my tummy up. He smells sour already. I hate when he smells sour, so I curl under my blankets.

“It spring break.”

“Spring break? Spring break is for college kids. Are you in college, brat?”

“No.” I hide under the blankets more and pray he goes away. But he doesn’t. My back hits the dresser or the dresser hits my back. I’m not in bed anymore. The knees on his pants are dirty like he was crawling around in Mrs. Patchkin’s garden making homemade pies.

“Then go. To. School.” My door makes a loud noise and the house shakes. But I shake more than the house. The TV gets louder. I get dressed and shake. I shake and get dressed.

There’s only one shirt and one underwear in my dresser. The rest of my clothes are dirty, piled in my little laundry basket. It’s filled with three shirts and two underwear. And five socks that don’t match except for the big toe holes. I shake and pull on my one pair of jeans.

I run as fast as I can out the door and down the sidewalk and around the bush and into the backyard in a bigger bush. The dirt is cold and the ground hard against my bare feet. I want to go to my hiding spot, but he put boards over it and I can’t pull them off no matter how hard I try. I used to sleep under Mrs. Patchkin’s back porch. I would play with the ants and spiders and these weird giant spider crickets. They were my favorite. If you chased them they would chase you back.

Once a mouse curled up next to me and went to sleep. He didn’t wake up. I petted him and named him Billy and played with him till school. He smelled funny, so I put him in a hole and put dirt on him. The giant spider crickets said the dead prayer.

Mrs. Patchkin said Tom Cat lived under her porch and killed something. I never met Tom

Cat all the time I was down there. She made him put boards up to keep Tom Cat out but didn’t leave any room for me to get in.

I hide in the big prickly bush until the buggies make me itch and the stars come out. Then

I run in as fast as I can and dive under my bed. He isn’t home though ’cause the TV isn’t on.

That’s how I know he went to do adult stuff. That’s what it means when he buys the sour stuff. It says Whiskey in curly red letters.

“You want some of this, huh, brat? It’s your fault I had to buy this. It’s grown-up medicine to make brats like you go away.” That’s what he said when he came home with it forever and ever ago.

He buys grown-up medicine ever since Mommy went away. She didn’t say nothing to me and never came back. She left a letter on the counter up so high I couldn’t reach it. When he read it, he started shaking and his face got all red. Mommy left ’cause of me ’cause I was bad. I left my shoes out again. His belt makes me never forget again. Mommy didn’t come back, but my shoes never get left out no more. My tummy starts to eat itself. It hurt so bad I made a homemade pie on Tuesday. My tummy started to eat itself again when I hid in the prickly bush till he went to do adult stuff. My tummy starts taking bigger and bigger bites, eating more and more. I sleep all day in the prickly bush before I run inside and sleep. I don’t know what day it is no more.

Men don’t cry. Ever.

The TV is turned up loud when I sneak to the living room. I was gonna make a homemade pie again, but the door has the chain on it and I can’t reach. If I move a chair to take it off, it will wake him. I can’t use a chair to look for food in the cabinets either. I’m not allowed in the cabinets. And the chair is so big I can’t pick it up yet.

A dollar sticks out of his pocket. His jeans are on the floor where mine aren’t allowed to go. Grown-ups can put things anywhere they want. Kids can’t. There’s a store I walk to when he makes me get his smokes from the big man behind the counter there. I saw sandwiches there.

The big man says they are for payin’ customers. I wonder if I had money, would it make me a customer?

I take the dollar and hide it in my jeans pocket. I leave it there when I wash my clothes.

I’m so big now I can wash them myself. Danielle showed me how. You put in a scoop of powder and push the big button that says Start. Then it will buzz when you have to put it in the dryer and push that Start button. But she went away, too, like Mommy.

I wash the money to make the sour smell go away. Maybe washing it will help make me a customer.

The big bites get bigger. My tummy takes so long to chew my insides that I think it took a whole lung this time. And when my tummy eats it, I stop breathing for a long time. It must not like the lung ’cause it gives it back.

My jeans are warm from the dryer when I run for the door after the TV stops making noise. The chain is hanging by the door which means I can go outside now.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, you little shit?” I stop so quick I run into the door. My tummy takes a bite but doesn’t like my lung and gives it back again.

“T-to school.”

“You think I’m some kind of idiot? School don’t run on Saturdays ’less you been bad.

You been bad, little shit?”

“N-no.” I stare at the door and count until my tummy stops eating again. One. Two.

Three, four. Ten.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me.” His big hand grabs my shoulder there, where he always grabs. It never looks like the other shoulder ’cause it’s always funny colors. “Where’s my money, huh? Think I wouldn’t notice, you fucking thief?!” I don’t like when he yells. My ears want to scream back.

“H-here.” I hand him the dollar. “I was gonna get you some smokes.” His hand squeezes harder and he stuffs the dollar back in his pocket.

“You ungrateful little bastard. The fuck your mommy leave you here with me, huh? How am I supposed to teach a retarded brat stealing is wrong, huh?!” When my back hits the door I run. “Oh no you fucking don’t, weasel!”

There’s that noise again. I hate that noise. I dive onto my bed but can’t get under the blankets fast. I am a ball, a little ball. Hard and strong and round. Thud. “Worthless!” Thud. The belt makes jingle noises in the air. The metal makes thud noises on my back. The belt hits my head. Clunk.

“Thieving shit!” He usually stops now. But then. Thud. Clunk. Crack. He won’t stop. I scream. And cry.

“Men.” Thud. “Don’t.” Crack. “Cry.” Clunk. “Ever!”

The belt hits my back. The belt hits my head. The belt hits my arms. The belt hits my bottom. I am a ball. A little crying, thieving shitball. But I can’t cry anymore. No sound comes out but my mouth is open wide. The blankets get wet in my mouth. I feel something hot between my thighs and over my knees.

I pray he doesn’t see.

Men don’t piss themselves. Ever.

I curl up tighter to hide the dark stains on my knees and on my blankets and in my mouth.

I am a ball. And I can fly.

I wake up as a ball that can’t fly. The TV is up loud. My tummy has gone asleep again. I run to the bathroom and close the door as quiet as a mouse and lock it. I fill the bath and sit in my pee clothes and turn off the water when it gets over my legs. The water is cold and makes my back and head and arms feel not as hot.

I use the soap bar and wash my clothes like I do my body. Quick so he don’t know. It’s hard to squeeze water out of jeans, but I twist and squeeze and twist and squeeze. When all the pee is washed out and I’m washed, I wrap a dirty towel from the floor around me and my pee clothes. Quiet as I can, I kinda run to my room. My pee clothes get tossed under my bed as I run. My back and head and arms feel too hot for clothes so I only wear my underwear. I put the towel over the pee on my bed. The blanket was balled up and didn’t get icky, but my sheets are icky now. I can’t wash them or he will know. I hope the towel will do good enough.

I can’t sleep with the aching all over, but I’m too tired to run to the prickly bush. I sing the Happy Birthday song to myself. I think I turned six today. After the sixth time of singing the song, I fall asleep on the pee towel. It’s night when I wake up. The TV is loud. I feel thirsty, but

I’m too tired to get up and fall back asleep. I smell something burning when I wake up again.

“Shit! Motherfucking Fucker! Fuck it!” He’s yelling. I hear loud bangs. Then keys jangling. Then the door slamming. Then tires squealing. He burns every time he cooks. I try to run to the kitchen to see what he burned this time. But my legs don’t work. I crawl.

Men don’t crawl. Ever.

I drag a chair to the kitchen counter. It takes so long I have to stop and rest a lot. When I climb up the chair, I find a skillet sitting in the sink beside his jars. Bacon and eggs are burned black on the edges. It’s hot and gooey in the center of the bacon, and the eggs are runny, but I eat every bit and drink right from the sink. I drag the chair back easier now. I run back to my bed.

My tummy is quiet until Monday when Miss Steiner gives me all of her muffin. It’s banana nut.

It tastes like leather shoes.

3. Shiny New Things

He starts acting funny. I go home and have new blankets and sheets and pillows. And jeans that are too long. And shirts that are too big and underwear that is too small. When I get new toys, I know.

There is a woman.

When I get new things, there is a woman who comes to stay with us. Last time her name was Luci with an “i”. She taught him how to get stamps and something called well fair. She signed the paper to make the school give me lunch. She was mean, but I got to eat lunch ’cause of her. He made her leave and took all the new stuff from my room.

“All right, now behave for the pretty lady. You play with her daughter, so the grown-ups can be alone. Got it?” He doesn’t know how to put the shirt in my jeans. I do it so I don’t hear the noise I hate. He bought food from the deli and put it on the good plates.

When there is a soft tap on the door, he makes me stand in the hall between the kitchen and TV room and wait. He said to smile, but I don’t know how, and it makes my cheeks hurt funny, so I don’t.

In the door stands a tall and thin lady with blond poufy hair and shiny pink color on her eyes. She wears a pink dress. She looks as pretty as my mommy.

“Henry, so nice of you to have us over! This is Rayna. Say hi, Raynie.” The pretty lady moves so Rayna can come in the door.

The room gets brighter. Something moves in my chest. The house stops smelling like store chicken and mojos and smoke. It smells sweet. Like flowers. “Hi.” She’s little. Like me but littler. She stares at the floor. The grown-ups are talking, but I don’t hear them. Rayna has a dress like her mommy, but hers is shiny with white beads on her chest. She has two braids she likes to tug and a dolly in a matching pink dress under her arm.

Her mommy holds her hand. Her mommy has pink on her nails.

It’s quiet. The grown-ups are looking at me. I don’t say nothing. Rayna’s mommy bends over to look at me. I look for freckles to count but don’t find none.

“I’m Liz. What’s your name, sweetie?” What’s a sweetie?

“Damian.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Damian. I’ve heard so much about you.” I look at him; he’s staring back. He is smiling, but I know he’s angry. I wonder if he told her that I made my mommy go away. “Do you want to show Raynie all your toys?” Liz pulls Rayna to stand in front of me and holds her little hand out to me.

Rayna tugs her braid with her doll squeezed under her arm. I think the doll can’t breathe like me right now. Her hand is warm and soft. I could break it if I squeeze too hard, so I don’t. I run to my room, but not so fast Rayna can’t run.

“Your room is little.” Rayna hops on my bed. I stand by the door and listen for the TV to go up loud, but it doesn’t. I hear Liz laugh. Her laugh sounds pretty. “Can I play with this?”

Rayna holds up a red-and-white action figure that he bought.

“I guess. It’s not mine.”

“Is it your big brother’s?” Rayna makes her doll and the action figure dance.

“I don’t have a brother.” “Oh.” She spins the dolls around and looks at me. Her eyes are like my favorite blue crayon, cerulean. “You play the ’pider man.”

“What’s a ’pider man?” I sit beside her and take the action figure she holds up. I sit between her and the door. Just in case.

“He is, silly.” Rayna points at the action figure. “’Pider man, ’pider man, does wh’ever a

’pider can.” She sings and makes her dolly dance. I make the ’pider man dance too. I don’t know how to play. I don’t think I’m allowed.

“How old are you?” Rayna asks me, then continues singing.

“Eight.” I think that’s how old I am.

“You’re old. I’m six.”

The door makes a creaking noise, and I jump up and toss ’pider man down. He is there.

So is Liz. She’s holding a plate of food I can smell, and my tummy yells. I hear a noise behind me I never heard ever. I like it. Like the sounds Mrs. Patchkin’s wind chimes make. Rayna is giggling.

“Aw, aren’t they so cute together? Do you like Damian, Raynie? Are you having fun?”

“He don’t know who ’pider man is,” Rayna tells Liz. He looks mad. Liz doesn’t see.

“Are you hungry, Raynie? I brought you some dinner so you can stay in here and play.

There’s enough for both of you.” Liz hands me the plate, and I look at him.

“He already ate,” he tells Liz. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the noise. But all I hear is the door shut. 4. Princess and Her Hero

Something changed. But I know the truth. I’ve seen these things several times before. It happens with every new woman he entertains himself with. They all try to “fix” him like he’s some kind of project. But cooing at him while he’s angry doesn’t smother the flames. They’re only fanning that fire while he’s hiding his anger.

I know it’s strange, but I almost like it better when he blows up at every little thing. At least then it doesn’t take much for him to let out his anger. Some screaming, a few things get broken, and of course that belt. But now, bottling up every little nuisance makes him that much more dangerous.

Volatile.

I smile at my growing vocabulary. So much has changed since they came to live with us.

The house is clean, yet I never knew it wasn’t before. My clothes fit right, always smell clean, and they’re never wrinkled. We sit at the table and eat real food together. After we eat, Liz helps us with our homework before we wash dishes together. Liz washes, I dry, and Rayna puts everything away. We laugh and dance and fling bubbles at each other. We have fun.

But one day, Rayna dropped a plate and cried. Liz soothed her, kissing away her tears and sweeping up the pieces.

They didn’t see his knuckles turn white as he gripped the table, but I saw.

It’s only a matter of time before he explodes. Rayna turned eight a few months ago.

They’ve been with us for so long now that sometimes I forget what it used to be like. But I can never forget. I must always be ready. What will it be like when he finally snaps? Liz will leave, like all the rest, like they always do. In fact, I will look forward to it because when the women go away, things go back to normal. I prefer things to go back the way they were because at least I can predict him. Survive him.

But if Liz leaves…

She’ll take my Rayna with her.

And I’ll be alone again.

He had a job for a while. It was the longest he had a job for as far back as I can remember. Liz must think he’s down on his luck. She wants to cheer him up. We’re going somewhere. We’re huddled in the back of Liz’s car. It smells like an older, dustier version of her.

He’s driving us somewhere. A vacation?

“Yup. And we’re gonna be driving for a real long time. So I put lots of money on the side and saved up real big to get this for you two. I’d say you better share it like my mama always told me, but heck, there isn’t a single thing you two don’t share.”

Liz places a small bow-topped box on Rayna’s lap. Rayna shakes the box, making it rattle. Silver paper covers the box all tied up in a rainbow bow.

“Son of a fucking whore! Move the fuck over, you fucking idiot! Who the fuck?” He yells as a car flies by us in the lane to our right. The car in front of us is so close, I keep thinking the bumpers will get stuck together. Liz winces but ignores him, reaching into a bag at her feet before turning in her seat to face us again.

“Here, this goes with it, but I couldn’t find a box big enough. Sorry, Raynie. I know how much you love tearing open presents.” Liz plops another gift on top of the silver-wrapped box.

This one is a stuffed turtle in rainbow print that matches the bow. Rayna squeals, wrapping her arms around the toy and forgetting about the box. I catch it before it falls from her lap when he swerves to a different lane.

“Okay, honey, we’ve got a turn coming up soon. We’ll be off this highway in no time.”

Liz loops her arm around his and curls her body against him. Rayna and I are quickly forgotten.

For the first three hours of the trip my eyes are drawn to him, watching, waiting. We don’t take trips like this. We never have. I never have. I hate things beyond my control. I didn’t care about much before, but now, with my Rayna, I have so much to protect. I’m still too weak and small to be what Liz and Rayna need, but one day I’ll be big enough to protect both of them.

If I can survive this trip.

Why now, when things were going so well? A trip is the last thing to take unemployment off his mind. Now he’s just gonna stew in his anger. I’m almost sure it will happen on this trip.

Maybe it’ll happen before we even get to wherever we’re going.

Any minute now.

I watch.

And wait.

The sun sets, casting the old interior of Liz’s tan Honda in an eerie copper light. I catch his gaze in the rearview mirror. In a strange trick of the twilight glow, he looks at me not with anger or burning hatred but with sadness and defeat. The illusion fades and is gone, his eyes back to the road, foul words hot on his tongue at a swerving minivan beside us. I pretend to see nothing, afraid of the accusation of an imagined snicker, a sneer, a rolling of eyes. Any excuse to pull over, to rediscover that belt around his hips, to break this strange spell.

In my panic, I fumble for something to fill my hands, something to distract me. The silver-wrapped package perched between Rayna and me. For the next twenty minutes as light fails us, I peel off each piece of tape until, timid as a field mouse, I’m able to pull back enough paper to peer at the box beneath.

A Game Boy?

“No way!” I whisper in the church-quiet car. Church-quiet is another one of those additions to my vocabulary, thanks to Liz. Every time she comes home from work, she says the house is church-quiet. All eyes are on me. His eyes narrow in the mirror. Liz glances over her shoulder, a distracted smile on her lips.

“What is it?” Rayna suddenly becomes aware of the world outside herself and her new turtle. It isn’t until that moment that I’m able to name the sick feeling in my gut, the jealousy I felt for the affections falling upon that turtle. Before Liz gave it to her, Rayna wowed out the window, pulling my attention to anything beyond the smudged glass that caught her eye while she kept her clammy hand tight in mine.

“You like it?”

My eyes are blank as I stare between the box in my lap and the forgotten turtle on the floor. My cheeks feel warm. I nod to answer Liz and glance up to see she had turned back to the map.

“There’s our exit, quarter of a mile. Almost there.” “Where in the hell…” he mumbles. His voice is lined not with that constant edge of violence but with resignation to this endeavor of Liz’s.

“Yeah, I never got to play with one, but lots of kids at school have one,” I mumble to my lap.

“There’s a few games in the box, why don’t you try one out?” Liz suggests without taking her eyes from the road or her hand from where it’s rested the whole trip, atop his over the shifter.

The box is from a used shop down the road from our house. Chunky’s Buy It Again the big price sticker says. A different, older price sticker on the other side of the box says WAS $50. I find three games inside. One looks like a racing game with a flashy lime-green car on the front and English letters similar to Japanese characters. One game has a missing label with a discount sticker in its place. Donkey is the only legible word from the name, a monkey eye floating behind the word.

“That one!” Rayna points at the last game, yelling way too loud. Liz chuckles, the sound more soothing than humorous. I notice her hand massages his.

Frantic, I shove whatever game Rayna pointed to, without glancing at the label, straight into the slot of the Game Boy. I recognize the little man in his red outfit and am relieved to have a game I know. From the little bits the other boys in my class allowed me to see on their Game

Boy screens, this was my favorite of all those they played. I never got to watch anyone play for long before they noticed me and left in screams and barking howls.

I play through the levels the rest of the trip, completing each one with Rayna’s innocent inquiry as my only prize. “Will you get the princess after this level?” To which my answer is always a patient, “Not yet.”

By the time we reach wherever Liz has led us, I still haven’t saved the princess. Rayna dozes on my shoulder, her breath whistling through her teeth. I’m so tired, I don’t notice much more about where we are except the reflection of the sky in a still body of water not far from where we’re parked. We’re surrounded by tents and trucks and trailers and strings of lights with yellow bulbs and dogs barking at nothing.

Our luggage is dumped in a careless heap inside the door to a small cabin smack in the middle of all the tents and RVs and houses on wheels. The room we stand in is cramped. The

TV, sofa, and recliner are mere inches apart. Three closed doors dot the room, an open doorway in the center leads to a kitchen bigger than ours at home, but all the appliances are smaller.

“A kitchenette,” Liz educates our sleepy faces. There is a collective mumble of contentment as we all resign ourselves to our respective beds. In one of the small rooms off the living room, Rayna and I have our own beds, side by side, but we sleep in only one of the them, side by side.

I awake to the sound of children screaming, dogs barking, and mothers mothering. Liz makes us a breakfast of pancakes with the kind you add water and pour straight from the bottle.

He isn’t up yet. She carries a plate for him into their room. Rayna and I are given free reign of the campground but quickly find it overrun with obnoxious screaming miscreants with noses dripping and faces caked in various artificial dyes.

We find peace in the shade of a line of trees along the shore of the small lake, and I let my guard down after spending so much time laughing and jumping into the lake instead of jumping at sudden sounds, running for the fun of it and not for the safety of it. After a second sleepless night, I rescue the princess on the third day. It’s a warm and sunny evening but the dimming light still blinds my sore eyes while Rayna watches the Game

Boy screen with one eye. I bravely fought from dusk till dawn, dawn till dusk, when at last my spiky-shelled nemesis fell, and the princess smacked ruby-red lips on the mouth of my overall- clad hero.

“I wanna play the princess and the hero!” Rayna proclaims the next morning before crickets have quieted, before the silver light of dawn has faded.

Instead of a turn playing the hero on the Game Boy, she shows no interest in the game now that I’d beaten it. But her version of the game begins. Her evil rainbow turtle was as evil as

I’d believed. He lured her with his beautiful striped shell until she had climbed way too high in the giant twisted branches of an old weeping tree hidden along the shore of the tiny lake.

“Princess! Fear not, I will save you!” I declare valiantly despite the fearful palpitations of my clamoring heart, my teeth chipping away my nails each time her foot knocks free a twig or piece of bark. Why is she still climbing?

“Help, my hero! The evil turtle has…” Her plea falters as the threat becomes real and her balance wobbles precariously.

Without another thought, I scramble up the tree in time to reach the branch where she’s perched as she slips. The copper light returns, casting this moment in a new glow, a shimmering fiery gold bathing my Princess in warmth. I’m held prisoner by the sight before me. Her feline movements and the agile way her small body coils around the branch becomes magical as the weeping leafy strands dance around my faerie Princess.

The momentary look of terror blooms across her sweet features before she catches herself from falling. Now safe and steady, she flashes a mischievous smile at me. That piercing look sends vicious thoughts of claiming ownership through my confused young mind. In that moment, she appears before me a forest sprite, a being of true beauty for my eyes only, my hands only.

Mine.

I reach for her.

More poetic than the eternal reach cast upon the crackling ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, our fingertips touch, dance, as hands interweave. She sits up as I lunge at her, and for a moment, we are suspended, happily embraced and balancing aloof, alight in the mystic mist of coming dark.

A whoosh and wobble, a squeal and sharp inhale.

The explosive sound of water erupts as two entangled kids cannonball into the murky black lake, resurfacing startled, shocked, rattled, and elated.

A limp rainbow turtle bobs to the surface.

“The evil turtle has been vanquished!” Rayna giggles, and for a moment the sound carries this tired mind into the cold darkness lapping around us, weighing our clothes down with the easy answer of it.

“Princess?” But she does not understand the truth of the silent question I pose in the small utterance of her new name.

“Oh, right! Your reward, my hero.” She crawls in the muck to me, and I panic, freeze, petrify. In a subtle brush of quivering youth and inexperience and true innocence, she kisses me.

5. Swallowtail

The day was warm, the sun shining so bright that it hurt my eyes. I wish it had seared them, burned them so I could not see another day. I never want to see that fear in Rayna’s eyes again. All I wanted was to see her smile, to see those blue eyes light up in excitement and wonder. I didn’t want to ruin the happiness, shatter the fantasy.

The yellow-and-black butterfly flits with freedom, without effort, before landing on the pink rose on the bush between our backyard and Mrs. Patchkin’s next door. When Rayna sees that butterfly and laughs, I have to catch it for her. I run inside and grab a glass jar that he drinks out of before hiding beside the bush. When the object of Rayna’s bubbling joy flaps its wings to take off, I capture it.

“Look, Rayna! I got it!” With a flurry of excitement, I screw the metal lid in place.

“Hurry, we gotta punch holes in the top so it can breathe. Find a sharp rock with me!”

“I got one! Is this sharp enough, Damy?” Rayna holds a flat rock high above her head like a golden ticket. A golden ticket out of a hell she hadn’t realized she was in.

The butterfly’s wings can only open and close an inch. The poor creature is now trapped, unable to fly and sip nectar. Unable to be free. Just like me. Just like Rayna and Liz. Rayna’s smile is so large, her little white teeth glint in the sun. Her laughter lifts the darkness, little by little.

We smuggle our treasure into our room and place it on the table between our beds with focused delicacy as if one jerking motion and the jar would shatter, the butterfly would shatter, the illusion would shatter. She peers into the glass with shining eyes.

I wished I had some way to capture that happiness, that brightness on her face before it was replaced with fear.

When he storms into our bedroom, I hadn’t realized he’d been calling for me. I hadn’t heard my name in that sluggish yell. Everything happens in slow motion, but it’s over in an instant. Like the change of a season, the leaves change color one by one, unnoticed. All at once there are no leaves, no warmth from the sun. Only bitter cold and darkness.

“You brought bugs in my house! You put bugs in my whiskey jar! You think this is funny? How dare you disrespect me like this?”

I stand frozen as the jar shatters on the floor and the butterfly’s bits smear onto the glass shards, and the light dies in Rayna’s eyes.

Only when she reaches for the shattered happiness am I back in my body, thawed and moving. I ignore the look of hurt on her face as I push her away.

I turn my head to the side and brace the muscles in my arms, ready and willing to take the blows so that she won’t have to. He’s gripping my arms tight, the floor lost to my feet. A sour warmth puffs over my face. He’s screaming. I don’t know what he’s saying. I keep my eyes on Rayna, praying that as I long as I can see her, she’ll be safe.

“Henry! Henry, put him down. What is going on?” Liz’s voice penetrates the darkness.

The light dies in her eyes too as he sends his elbow to her face. I’m thrown to my bed. Between blows, I curl into a ball, my eyes glued on Rayna. That fear, her fear, hurts worse than this, cuts deeper than this.

“Stop it! Stop it!” With blood and tears dripping onto the ugly brown carpet, Liz tries to pull him off me. When he’s distracted with Liz, I grab Rayna’s arm and run. I run to the basement to a secret spot under the stairs. I have to tell her to be quiet several times or her crying will give us away.

“Hey, it’s all over now. There, there, Princess.” I stroke her brown hair as I hold her head to my chest. He didn’t hurt her. She’s okay, he didn’t touch her. We sit huddled together with the

Christmas decorations that have never been put up. We stay there until the yelling stops and the crying stops. Rayna sleeps in my arms until I hear the familiar sound of the TV.

In silence, I carry her to our room. The glass is gone, the room is straightened. No blood drips on the carpet or blankets bunched on the floor. It’s as if it never happened, as if it was all a nightmare. But the stiffness in my arms and back say otherwise. The painful heat on my side is a reminder of what I had done.

“Damy?” Her cerulean eyes open and close in a flutter, lashes dancing like crushed wings, as I lay her head on her pillow. I look away, afraid to see the betrayal and fear, afraid to see them tainted with the darkness. “You’re hurt.” Her little fingers brush above my eyebrow and come away stained.

“It’s nothing.” I turn to collapse into the comfort of my bed. When I glance at her, she’s at the door.

“No!” I say too late. She puts a finger to her lips, then slips into the hallway. I forget to breathe, forget to blink. I listen for any sound, any movement from the living room, anything more than commercials and applause. When her little head pops back in the room, life returns to me.

“I can fix it. I’ll make you all better, Damy.” She holds up the first aid kit, too big for her little arms. I let her wrap gauze around each arm and put bandages over each eye. After each one she places a kiss over them and says, “All better now.”

By the time we crawl into bed, I look like a mummy. She sleeps in my bed against the wall. I sleep on the outside edge in case he comes back.

I watch her sleep and wait for Liz. Her worried whisper rouses me from sleep. She’s feeling around Rayna’s bed for her, whispering her name over and over. Each whisper is more desperate, more frantic than the last. I hold my Princess to my chest and listen as Liz searches.

“Over here,” I say with tears in my eyes.

“Oh, thank God,” Liz says when her hands descend on Rayna’s head and mine.

“Can I wake her to say goodbye?” I can’t help the choking noise I make or hold back the tears. He would be so ashamed to know I was crying. Men don’t cry. Ever.

“Goodbye? She’s not going anywhere, Damian. You don’t need to say goodbye.”

“But they always leave. Everyone does.” After the fantasy goes away. After the whiskey comes to stay.

“Oh, Damian, my sweet boy.” I’m pulled from the bed to stand upright. Her arms are around me, my face in her hair. It smells like hairspray and smoke. I feel warm, tingles moving over my skin. I’ve never been hugged by a grown-up before, only Rayna. Why isn’t she leaving?

“You’re not leaving her here, are you?” The way my mother left me.

“No, no one’s leaving. Why do you think we’re leaving?”

“They all do. After he drinks. After the fantasy ends.”

“You know too much. You’re so grown-up already. So young, so young.” She shakes her head and pulls back, holding me at arm’s length. Her thumb grazes the bandage over my right eye. “Did Rayna do this?” I nod against her hand. Her head bends between us, her body shaking.

At first, I think she’s crying, but when she looks up at me, even in the dark room, I see a flicker of the light dancing in her eyes. She’s laughing.

“All better now.”

Rayna made it all better. I wish Rayna would make Liz all better too. Her right eye and cheek are swollen and red, and her bottom lip is split in the center. Liz is so pretty, even with her eye swollen like that. I wonder if my mother looked as pretty.

“Yes, all better now, Damian. That’s all I wanted to know, that you two were okay. I was worried when I couldn’t find either of you. You were keeping her safe, weren’t you?” I nod against the hand that cups my cheek.

“I’ll keep her safe, and you won’t have to go,” I whisper. Tears pool in her eyes as I’m crushed against her.

“We won’t leave, Damian. I promise. We’ll stay, we’ll always stay.”

“You shouldn’t.” I don’t want them to go. I don’t want them to stay. I don’t want to see the light disappear forever.

“I know. Every fiber in my being is screaming to run.” I imagine little Lizes making up big Liz’s body, all cupping their mouths and screaming Run! “But I can’t leave you. And I can’t take you.”

“Why?” She sits back on her heels, her eyes on Rayna’s sleeping form.

“That would be kidnapping. They would take her from me. They would take you from me. Rayna would go to a foster home, and you’d end up back here. I can’t have that.” But he would have to call the police to say I was missing, and I can’t imagine him caring enough to do that. She smiles as she watches Rayna. After a few minutes, she helps me back into bed.

“I’m sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry for, sweet pea?” She strokes my hair.

“I broke the fantasy.” I made him angry.

“Oh, sweetie. You didn’t do anything wrong, do you understand me?” Her hands frame my face, turning me so I have to stare at her good eye and swollen eye. Have I made her angry, too? I want to say sorry again, but I’m afraid she’ll get angrier. I swallow while nodding.

“Henry just… He has some problems. Grown-up stuff to deal with. You did nothing wrong.” Liz releases my face. I like that she doesn’t call him my father, doesn’t question that I don’t call him daddy. “Promise me something. Okay, Damian?”

“What?” I’ve never had to make a promise with a grown-up before. I thought only kids do that. I wonder what happens when you break a promise with a grown-up.

“When things get bad, really bad, promise me you’ll take Rayna somewhere safe? Just run, get away? I know it’s a lot to ask but—”

“I promise.” Even if she didn’t ask, I still would. No one hurts my Rayna.

“Thank you, my sweet boy.” She rests her cheek on mine. Beside me, Rayna whimpers and rolls over, draping an arm around me. Liz smiles before she leans over to kiss her forehead.

“I love you, Raynie.” If she were awake, she would say, Love you more, Mommy.

“Night,” I tell her as she pats my head. She kisses my forehead too, startling me. “Good night, Damian. I love you.” She leaves me confused. No one’s ever said that to me before. I thought those were words people said to their own children or mommies and daddies said to each other, even though they don’t mean it. Why would she say that to me?

“Good night, Rayna. I love you,” I whisper, trying out the words before kissing her forehead the way Liz had. She stirs in my arms.

“Love you more, Damy.” She nuzzles my chest and falls back to sleep. I fall asleep with my arms wrapped around her, shielding her from him, from the cold of the night, from anything that could ever harm her.