The Breeders Part 6

He lifts his head and glares at me. "Since when do you care about me?"

I lean back, hands up in defense. "What're you talking about?"

He pulls at his hair in frustration. "You've been sleeping for three days! You won't even look at me! You said you wouldn't leave me, but you already have."

I didn't think it was possible for me to feel worse. The one person in the world I have left to care for, and I've turned my back on him. I put my hand on his shoulder. This time he doesn't shrug it off.

"I'm sorry." If I can get through this without crying, it'll be a miracle. "It's just real hard."

He sniffs. "I know."

"Yeah, you do. But I gotta get over it. Get my a.s.s in gear, as Auntie would say."

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "She'd say you were being a lily-livered dirt eater." He frowns, remembering.

The memory of Auntie's strange sayings lingers bitterly on my tongue. I stand and my legs buckle. Ethan grabs my hand and helps me up.

I throw my arm over Ethan's shoulder and press my face into the top of his head. "We'll eat lunch and then set some snares. A couple of rabbits and we'll be all set." He looks up at me, his face searching mine for rea.s.surance. I squeeze his shoulder. "It'll be okay."

What a terrible liar I am.

Chapter Seven.

The next day there's three unopened aluminum cans in a small pyramid on our porch. I squat down and examine the rippled cylinders. The labels are long gone, but the cans are in good shape, no dents or weird bulges. Food from another time. I wonder how long ago these were made. I'm about to chuck them in the trash when Ethan appears behind me. He looks longingly at the cans.

"Those can't be poisoned, right?"

I shrug. "Maybe there's poison on the outside of the cans."

He disappears, returns with Mom's rusty tongs. "There," he says, picking one up. "Now we can't get sick." He smiles at me. "Let's eat."

His feet thud smack on the wood floor as he runs into the kitchen. I hear him open drawers and digging out utensils. I stand on the porch and stare down the road. There's no motorcycle, no sign that Clay is lurking around. Something glints in the distance behind a large pile of rocks. Is he watching us? I stare in that direction for several minutes until Ethan calls from the kitchen that the food's done. The smell that trickles past my nose is enticing, but I can't stand the thought of eating something Clay's brought us. On the other hand, what choice do I have? My snares haven't caught anything, and the canned goods in the cellar won't last more than a week. We either eat Clay's offering, or we starve.

I sit at the table with Ethan and spoon manufactured chicken noodle soup in my mouth. The soup is thick and savory and I can't help but enjoy it a little. As I roll the slippery noodles around on my tongue, I think about Clay and what he's playing at. Why would he want us to trust him? If he wanted to capture us, he could pull up with a band of armed men. What could he gain from being kind? Maybe he just likes torturing his prey before he pounces and bites their heads off.

The next day, there's a homemade apple pie sitting on the porch. Ethan watches me with desperate eyes as I cradle the pie and bring it to the table. We hover around it and stare at the sugary apples peaking out through the slats of toasted crust. My stomach somersaults.

"Please don't throw it away." Ethan tugs on my elbow.

Though I'm desperate for the taste of that pie in my mouth, my pride can't allow it. I push the tin towards Ethan. "Eat it all." I leave before I can change my mind.

I head to our bedroom and pull on my coveralls, long-sleeved t-shirt and boots. I gotta do something other than sit and sulk at my inability to provide. At Clay's ability to do it so easily.

"Hey, pie face," I yell. "Let's go check some snares so we don't have to depend on treats from terrorists."

Ethan meanders in, smelling of baked goods. The wide smile on his crumb-covered face deepens the hurt mounting in my gut. Clay brought him that happiness.

"Put your boots on," I grumble.

The smile slips off Ethan's face, but he does what I ask. G.o.d, no matter what I do I feel like a loathsome, hairy dirt pie.

The sun bakes our heads as we tromp through the yard to the snares. The dust kicked up gets Ethan's asthma going again. We take a break in the shade of a rotted cactus husk and stare out over the crumbling landscape. The sea of brown stretches as far as I can see. Life was nearly impossible with three adults working their fingers to the bone. Now it's just me and the kid. We have four more days of canned goods in the cellar. Without the gifts from Clay, our only hope is the snares. Rabbits are plentiful, but the coyotes get to them before we do. And leaving isn't an option. Even if we had somewhere to run, we got no fuel. I tuck my chin to my knees and try not to think about what it would feel like to starve to death.

A buzzard spins in lazy circles overhead and Ethan tracks it with his eyes. "You think buzzards see color?"

I glance at him. A dark lock of hair falls in his eyes and he blows it up with a puff of air. A hint of a smile sits on his face as he watches the bird. When he sees a buzzard, he thinks about the wonderful things the bird can see. I think about the carca.s.s that bird's about to eat. Ethan deserves to survive. It's my job to make sure he does.

When we find the first snare, it's empty. I tuck my hands in my pockets and hide my disappointment when Ethan looks from me to the empty wire loop. In my pockets my hands clench and unclench.

The next snare delivers. A fat brown gopher lies strangled to death in my wire. Its paws have dug four deep ruts in the dry earth. Its tongue lolls to one side of his matted brown muzzle. I loosen the wire and lift him up by his hind legs.

"Gotcha," I say to the gopher. Then I turn to Ethan. "I'm gonna reset this snare. Go check the one over the hill and yell if we got something."

Ethan nods and clomps over the rise.

The snare wire is kinked and it takes me a while to straighten the noose and secure it on the game trail again. Just as I'm driving the anchor back into the ground, I hear a scream.

I sit bolt upright. "Ethan!"

I drop everything and run. The rise of the hill blocks my view, but then I hear a sound that sends gooseflesh over my arms-the distinct growl of a predator.

"No," I whisper as I sprint up the hill and dig out my hunting knife. How could I have let him go alone?

When I reach the crest, I spot Ethan. Four coyotes-snarling mongrels with their hackles raised, their bloodstained mouths contorted in fanged smiles-circle him. They'd picked up the scent of the rabbit in our snare, but Ethan stumbled upon them. Now their eyes glint as they circle another treat. They close in. This can't be happening. I sprint faster.

Ethan hears and throws me a desperate look. His arms are extended, his palms out, as if he could shoo them away. He's complete unarmed.

The ground blurs. My heart pounds. Twenty yards to go.

The alpha, a mangy mongrel with a blood-flecked muzzle, must sense me coming. He lurches. In a flash of yellow teeth, the coyote bites Ethan's outstretched arm.

"No!"

I close the last few yards in giant bounds and barrel into the pack, my knife out, teeth gritted. I charge past the three coyotes in the back and head straight for the alpha that's trying to drag Ethan away.

Time slows. The ugly scene is crisp as I lock onto my prey. Face contorted in terror, Ethan's free hand digs into the coyote's scruff. The coyote's tail is a taut brush behind him. His ears are erect triangles marking my approach. The frothy saliva runs from his fangs into my brother's b.l.o.o.d.y arm. There's a low, guttural growl, deep in his throat.

I fall on him. The only sound is the beat of my own heart as I jab my hunting knife home.

The serrated blade slices into the coyote's mangy hide. I bury it to the hilt in fur. With a fierce yelp, the coyote jolts and skitters sideways. He drops my brother's arm. Blood gushes from the animal's haunch. The coyote looks to his wound and then to me. He growls, flashing b.l.o.o.d.y fangs, but then limps sloppily over the ridge. His pack follows.

They're gone. Ethan.

With my blood still thrumming in my ears and the p.r.i.c.kles of heat flooding my veins, I drop beside my brother, now pale and covered with dust.

"Ethan," I say, reaching for his bloodied arm, "are you okay?"

Of course he's not okay. His arm is a torn mess of shredded skin, blood and coyote drool. His face drains of color and his eyes well with tears.

"He ... he bit me," he stammers. He looks like he's going to faint.

I cradled him and take off running. I keep my eyes on my brother's pale face. He has to be okay.

By the time I reach the house, my lungs feel like deflated balloons and a st.i.tch digs like a knife into my ribs, but none of that matters. I know what an infection means. With no antibiotics it means a horrible agonizing death.

I am stumbling through the yard when the figure blocks my path. A muscular man in clean denim, a faded t-shirt and cowboy hat. My eyes mark the silver revolvers at his hips. Clay.

I skid to a stop. "Get out of here!" I yell, though it comes out raspy from my aching lungs. I want to dig out my knife, but my hands are full of my brother, who's ... unconscious? Is he breathing? I flick my eyes from Ethan, back to Clay.

Clay sees Ethan's arm and his face darkens. He whistles low. "That's a nasty bite. Let me lend a hand."

"No." My voice is slick with hatred. "Get off my steps before I make you." My words sound strong, but my arms feel like limp noodles. If I have to fight Clay now, it'll go poorly. I don't care. I'll die before I'll let him hurt Ethan.

He wrinkles his blue eyes as if weighing his words. "Really," he says. "I can help."

"Help what?" I'm stalling. My eyes skim our dusty yard for an exit, an answer, something. "Help capture us?" Ethan moans and more blood runs from his arm onto his shirt. I have to get him inside. Now.

"Listen," he says, looking at me sheepishly, one thumb hooked in his belt loop, "I'm not here to take you in. When I locked you in the cellar, I was trying to keep you from getting shot up."

He offers that smile now, one he's probably given his parents a million times to say, Trust this face. Would I lie? I don't care how charming he is. All I can see is an image of Arn's body drug out for the coyotes.

"My parents and Auntie are dead because of you." I feel my pocketknife pressing against my thigh, waiting for me.

Clay's forehead furrows and he turns his eyes away. When he looks at me again, his voice is almost too quiet to hear. "Your ma and auntie aren't dead."

Suddenly the world feels smaller, heavier. "What'd you say?"

He blows out a breath. "They ain't dead. We ... they took 'em into custody. Nothing I could do."

Not dead. My mother and Auntie Bell aren't dead. But what's happening to them? Were they sold to the Breeders? The thought of them going back there feels like an iron fist around my insides.

Clay takes a few steps sideways. He takes his hat off and tucks it to his chest, a cowboy's act of contrition if I ever saw it. Then he nods down at Ethan's arm. "He needs disinfectant or that'll fester. Coyot' bites are nasty."

"I know that," I say, taking a few steps toward our back door. I walk slowly past him, never taking my eyes away.

He gestures toward the bike sitting in our driveway with his hat. "Got a first aid kit on the bike. It's not much, but I got antiseptic and bandages." He brings his hat back to his chest and smiles.

Arn in the dirt, left to die.

"We don't need your help." I run up the steps and lock the door behind me.

Ethan's arm worsens.

I wash the wound with water, but it's not enough. The four slashes, deep b.l.o.o.d.y valleys with peaks of shredded skin, swell and puss. While Ethan moans and rocks on the bed, I scour the house for soap, disinfectant, anything. I pull apart every cupboard and closet. I come up empty handed.

In the barn I knock over empty gas cans, dig through drawers and fling empty bottles from shelves. I find nothing but fat centipedes and oily rags. My heart won't stop thudding in my chest. What if there's nothing? Desperate tears threaten, but I dig my fingernails into my palms and keep searching. I gotta find something. I gotta.

I save Arn's workbench for last. There's too much pain hovering around his worn table, the notes tacked above in his slanted scrawl, his projects never to be finished. I walk to it slowly, feeling the waves of sadness wash over me as my eyes touch all the things that he never will.

My vision's drawn to something smooth and shiny on a top shelf. My hand closes around the brown gla.s.s dropper. I lift the three-inch bottle up to the light. Brown liquid sloshes inside. Half a bottle of iodine. Jackpot.

I run back to the house. When I barrel into Ethan's room, he's a sweaty moaning mess. I slide up to his bed and push the hair out of his eyes.

"I got it, bud," I say, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the bottle. "Hold still."

He moans, but stops thrashing. I fill the little dropper with iodine and drip it into his wounds. Such a little fix for such a huge problem. I pray it'll be enough.

Ethan calms a little, though his arm still throbs. I find myself rubbing his sweaty back and singing verses of "You Are My Sunshine" and "Rock-a-bye Baby," songs my mother would sing on nights when we were fitful or the thunder rattled the walls. The words feel heavy in my mouth.

He falls into a feverish sleep. Exhausted, I stumble down the hall.

Night has crept up in all the commotion. I stare out the ragged hole that was our front window to the quiet of our yard. The cool twilight air that pulses in feels good on my face. Somewhere an owl gives a mournful hoot and the insects buzz in harmony. I run my hands over my arms and slump on the couch. The familiar smells and sounds help me to breathe.

I've spent most of the day alternating between beating myself up for letting Ethan check a trap alone and picturing Auntie and my mama in chains. Now in the dark, my thoughts fly to them. Are they crouched against a concrete wall in one of the jail cells, waiting for the Breeders to collect their prize? My mind supplies chains on their ankles or collars around their neck. The horror of that thought haunts me. I hug myself and shiver. I gotta free them. But how?

My eyes trace the scattered remains of our life strewn around the living room. There's shards of a ceramic vase, the desert flowers my mother lovingly picked shriveled to husks on the floor. My eyes trace past shreds of our tattered wallpaper. A picture frame, knocked off a sideboard, lies broken on the ground. I pull myself off the couch and pick it up with tender hands.

The cherry wood frame, dented at the corners, holds the treasure I was seeking. The gla.s.s is gone, but the drawing remains. I lift the paper delicately out of the frame. It's a piece of butcher block with a ten-year-old's pencil scrawl. To anyone but my mama, it would've been trash, but she framed it and set it on the sideboard. Looking at it now brings a tightness to my throat I can't swallow down.

The pencil drawing shows five stick figures, each with giant circular heads and grins that cover half their faces. For my mama, I drew a triangle dress and her clutching what looks like a bean with a face-my best effort for baby Ethan. For Arn, I sketched his overalls as uneven rectangles over his stick body. Auntie's figure has a long rope braid down her back. And for myself, the biggest grin of all plastered on my little circle head.

My family as I saw it at age ten. I drew this at the kitchen table of the house we lived in six years ago. A thunderstorm crackled overhead and I tried to clamber on my mama's lap. She kindly pried me off and set the pencil and paper in front of me.

"Draw something happy," she'd said, caressing my cheek. "It'll keep your mind off the storm."

I hold the picture delicately to my chest. What I wouldn't give to go back there, under the flickering sky with my mother's hand at my shoulder and the clack clack of Auntie's rocking chair, the slow steady rhythm that meant all was right with the world. How could I have known then I had everything I ever need? That it would all be taken from me?

What can I do now to keep my mind off the storm?

The sharp knock on our front door wakes me. I bolt upright and dig in my pants for my knife. Nothing. I scan the room, lit with morning light, for a weapon and spy the fire poker in the stand near the hearth. Hefting the metal rod over my shoulder, I tiptoe to the front door.

Through the bullet holes in the wood, I see a figure on the other side.

"Go away!" I yell in my deepest voice. "We don't want any."

"Now, I highly doubt that."