his hand goes right round it. Still shouting, the gunman pushes me up the steps.
My mother is motionless on the floor of the cockpit. Her hood covers her face. Blood is trickling from her leg, and Iâm happy because that means her heart is beating, that sheâs alive. But there is a lot of blood. I step toward her, but the gunman jerks me back.
The cockpit and deck feel strangely bare. Anything of value has been taken. Even the box of flares is gone. The wind has come up and the mainsail is flapping, the wind whistling through the bullet holes. The gunman looks up at the sky. Black clouds form an inverted bowl overhead. The gunman hollers something at the men in the cabin, and they too climb up into the cockpit. Their arms are loaded with huge bundles of our stuff, which they toss down to their waiting boat. The building waves knock their boat against ours.
I donât want to be out here. Somehow I feel safer in the stink and mess below. One of the men nudges me, the one who had such a good time with the eggs. I donât know if he meant to touch me. I recoil from him, which makes him laugh. The man pokes me in the ribs, intentionally now. I bat away his hand. All the men laugh. He reeks of booze. He leans in close to me, Eggman, so close that all I have to breathe is his stink of booze and my motherâs lasagna. For an endless moment he hangs in front of my face. Then he kisses me.
Itâs not so much a kiss as a crushing of lips and teeth and tongue, God, a thick, prodding mass of tongue that fills my mouth. I gag and twist my face away. Eggman grabs my chin with greasy fingers, his thumb digging deeply into theunderside of my chin so that I canât breathe. His saliva is drying on my lips and I want to wipe it off. But I leave my arms at my sides. I will myself to a blank place of not knowing, not knowing that my mother is laying at my feet in a puddle of blood, that Duncan is blown apart on the sea, that itâs only me with these men.
I think about a starving cat I saw in Djibouti, bones hard through its skin, and the expressionless way it gulped the bread I gave it, like it didnât care if I killed it, that maybe death was looking pretty good. At least for Duncan, it was quick.
Eggman licks his lips. I close my eyes. If I try, if I really focus, I can hear my own heart beating, the blood pulsing through the tiniest vessels into the deepest places of my brain. If I try, then I donât have to know what Eggman is doing.
Lightning bursts over the boat, so close that the light and sound erupt in the same instant. A gust hits the boat like a hammer and the deck slopes crazily. Eggman drops his hand as he struggles for footing, stumbling to his knees. I fall away from him. Even in the lee of our sailboat, waves slop over the sides of their boat. The gunman screams at the men.
At first I think the sound is the gun, a tremendous tearing noise that makes me duck my head. The gunman glances up, and I see the mainsail, peppered with bullet holes, shred in the wind. Itâs crazy, but I almost feel like laughing. The mainsail is in rags, snapping at the mast. Even without the sail, the wind is heeling us over so that the men have to hang on to stand up. Iâm in the cockpit of the only world I have, in the middle of some sea half a planet away from theonly world I know. Iâm with a killer and his thugs. And the storm has moved right on top of our heads.
Maybe I do laugh.
The gunman slings his gun across his back. He kicks Eggman in the ass and Eggman lurches to his feet. The second man says something. They all laugh. I see Eggmanâs hand come up, fast, and I canât move, probably wouldnât have moved even if I could. His fist crashes into the side of my face. White heat explodes in my jaw, in my sinus, in my temple, and my knees fold. The last thing I see is our red go-bag being tossed down into their boat.
SIX
I DONâT WANT TO OPEN my eyes. Iâve ignored the
My mother is motionless on the floor of the cockpit. Her hood covers her face. Blood is trickling from her leg, and Iâm happy because that means her heart is beating, that sheâs alive. But there is a lot of blood. I step toward her, but the gunman jerks me back.
The cockpit and deck feel strangely bare. Anything of value has been taken. Even the box of flares is gone. The wind has come up and the mainsail is flapping, the wind whistling through the bullet holes. The gunman looks up at the sky. Black clouds form an inverted bowl overhead. The gunman hollers something at the men in the cabin, and they too climb up into the cockpit. Their arms are loaded with huge bundles of our stuff, which they toss down to their waiting boat. The building waves knock their boat against ours.
I donât want to be out here. Somehow I feel safer in the stink and mess below. One of the men nudges me, the one who had such a good time with the eggs. I donât know if he meant to touch me. I recoil from him, which makes him laugh. The man pokes me in the ribs, intentionally now. I bat away his hand. All the men laugh. He reeks of booze. He leans in close to me, Eggman, so close that all I have to breathe is his stink of booze and my motherâs lasagna. For an endless moment he hangs in front of my face. Then he kisses me.
Itâs not so much a kiss as a crushing of lips and teeth and tongue, God, a thick, prodding mass of tongue that fills my mouth. I gag and twist my face away. Eggman grabs my chin with greasy fingers, his thumb digging deeply into theunderside of my chin so that I canât breathe. His saliva is drying on my lips and I want to wipe it off. But I leave my arms at my sides. I will myself to a blank place of not knowing, not knowing that my mother is laying at my feet in a puddle of blood, that Duncan is blown apart on the sea, that itâs only me with these men.
I think about a starving cat I saw in Djibouti, bones hard through its skin, and the expressionless way it gulped the bread I gave it, like it didnât care if I killed it, that maybe death was looking pretty good. At least for Duncan, it was quick.
Eggman licks his lips. I close my eyes. If I try, if I really focus, I can hear my own heart beating, the blood pulsing through the tiniest vessels into the deepest places of my brain. If I try, then I donât have to know what Eggman is doing.
Lightning bursts over the boat, so close that the light and sound erupt in the same instant. A gust hits the boat like a hammer and the deck slopes crazily. Eggman drops his hand as he struggles for footing, stumbling to his knees. I fall away from him. Even in the lee of our sailboat, waves slop over the sides of their boat. The gunman screams at the men.
At first I think the sound is the gun, a tremendous tearing noise that makes me duck my head. The gunman glances up, and I see the mainsail, peppered with bullet holes, shred in the wind. Itâs crazy, but I almost feel like laughing. The mainsail is in rags, snapping at the mast. Even without the sail, the wind is heeling us over so that the men have to hang on to stand up. Iâm in the cockpit of the only world I have, in the middle of some sea half a planet away from theonly world I know. Iâm with a killer and his thugs. And the storm has moved right on top of our heads.
Maybe I do laugh.
The gunman slings his gun across his back. He kicks Eggman in the ass and Eggman lurches to his feet. The second man says something. They all laugh. I see Eggmanâs hand come up, fast, and I canât move, probably wouldnât have moved even if I could. His fist crashes into the side of my face. White heat explodes in my jaw, in my sinus, in my temple, and my knees fold. The last thing I see is our red go-bag being tossed down into their boat.
SIX
I DONâT WANT TO OPEN my eyes. Iâve ignored the
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