Chapter 4: One-Oh-Four

For three nights I slept in a kitchen chair facing the locked door, with my father's rifle across my knees, and Ward's truck never came back.

On the third night Lottie's fever climbed past what a wet washcloth could handle.

I heard Kit say my name at two in the morning, high and thin, from the spare room.

I was down the hall before I was awake.

Lottie lay across Kit's knees, red in the face, and her whole body had gone stiff.

Her eyes were half open and wouldn't look at anything.

"She's doing it again," Kit said. "She did this once in March, the doctor said it was a seizure from the fever, I don't know what to do."

"Get her shoes. Get her blanket. We're going."

"It's twenty miles."

"Then we're going fast."

I drove my truck down the gravel at a speed I wouldn't have let a green horse go.

Kit sat in the back seat with Lottie against her chest and counted breaths out loud.

Halfway to town, Lottie's arms let go and she started to cry, a thin, furious cry, and Kit started crying with her.

"That's good," I said. "That's a good sound. Keep her talking."

"I called him," Kit said.

"Who?"

"Jesse. From the hallway. I'm sorry. He's the only number I had that worked."

I kept my eyes on the road.

My hands tightened on the wheel until my knuckles went pale.

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