The road was just white. The houses were dark shapes with their eyes closed, their curtains drawn. No one was watching. No one ever watched.
I knew this. I was 7, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew that screams didn’t make doors open. I’d tried that two weeks ago, when Aunt Margaret locked me in the basement for spilling my milk. I’d screamed until my throat was raw, and I heard Mrs. Gable next door turn her television up louder.
Adults don’t want to get involved. That’s what they say. It’s a secret code that means “I don’t care enough to do anything hard.”
My feet stopped hurting an hour ago. That’s what scared me the most. When they hurt, I knew they were still there. Now, they were just numb, dead blocks of ice at the end of my legs. My boots were too small, hand-me-downs from a church bin, and the soles were so thin I could feel the sharp gravel under the snow.
“Sixteen… seventeen… eighteen…” I counted my steps. It was the only thing that kept me moving. My teacher, before Aunt Margaret pulled me out of school, said counting was good for your brain. I was on my 127th hundred. Or maybe my 128th. I was losing track.
The rope was the worst part, besides the cold. It was an old jump rope, and I’d tied it around the wooden board from the shed. Then I’d tied the other end around my waist. It cut into my stomach, right through my thin jacket, a burning, raw line that ached every time I pulled. And I had to pull. Because Tommy was on the board.
He was so still. That was the other thing that scared me. He wasn’t crying anymore. He’d been coughing all week, a wet, rattling sound that sounded like something was breaking inside his chest. This morning, he was just… hot. His face was gray and sweaty, even though the air was freezing. When I touched his forehead, he was burning up.
I’d begged her. “Please, Aunt Margaret. He’s sick. He’s really sick. We need a doctor.” She was smoking, watching her morning TV show. She blew smoke in my face. “Hospitals cost money,” she’d snapped. “And doctors ask questions. He’ll be fine. Kids get sick. Stop being so dramatic or you’ll get the belt again.”
Uncle Rick had laughed. He was on his third beer. “Kid’s tough. He’ll sleep it off.” But Tommy wasn’t sleeping. He was… going away. I knew that look. I saw it on Mama, in the hospital bed, right before she closed her eyes and never woke them up again. That was 18 months ago. 18 months of Aunt Margaret and Uncle Rick. 18 months of being hungry, and cold, and scared.
I knew they were going to the casino. They always did. They’d left in Uncle Rick’s rusty truck, yelling about how they were going to “win big.” I knew I had time. I bundled Tommy in every blanket I could find. I put on my boots. I found the board. I wrote the note, just in case. Baby sick. Going to hospital. -Emma. And I started walking.
Three miles. I’d heard her say it. Three miles to the emergency room. I fell. My numb foot caught on a tree root buried in the snow, and I went down, crashing onto my hands and knees. The pain was sharp, shooting up my arms. The rope jerked tight, stopping me from hitting my face. Behind me, on the sled, Tommy made a sound. A small, weak whimper. Like a hurt animal. I scrambled up, my hands screaming. I looked at him. His eyes were closed. His little lips were blue. “No,” I whispered. “No, you can’t. You can’t, Tommy. I’m coming. I’m getting you there.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to lie down in the snow and just… stop. But no one was coming. No one ever comes. If I wanted Tommy to live, I had to save him myself. So I got up. I grabbed the rope. And I started walking again.
“Sixty-three… sixty-four… sixty-five…” The headlights cut through the snow first. A car. My heart jumped. I waved my arms, forgetting the rope, yanking the sled. “Help!” I tried to yell, but my voice was a frozen croak. “Help us!” It was a big, black, shiny car. The kind I’d only seen in movies. It was expensive. It slowed down. It stopped. Right beside me. The window rolled down, smooth and quiet. A man looked out. My first thought was to run. Uncle Rick’s friends were men in cars. They looked at me in ways that made my skin feel dirty. But I couldn’t run. Tommy. The man was older, maybe 50. He had dark hair with gray in it, and his face was tired. He was wearing a coat that probably cost more than our whole house. His eyes, dark brown, looked at me. Then his gaze shifted. To the sled. To Tommy’s small, still, gray face. And I watched his face… change. It wasn’t just surprise. It was horror. It was… pain. It was like he knew. He opened his car door and stepped out into the storm. I stepped back, putting myself between him and Tommy. I was shaking, but I didn’t care. The man stopped. He raised his hands, slow and gentle. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. His voice was deep, and steady. “I’m not going to hurt you. But your brother… he needs a hospital. Right now. Let me help you.” I didn’t move. “Nice” didn’t mean “safe.” Aunt Margaret was “nice” to the social worker. The man seemed to understand. “My name is James Castellano,” he said. “I live near here. I… I had a daughter. She would be about your age.” His voice broke on that. Real grief. Not fake, like Aunt Margaret’s at Mama’s funeral. “What’s your name?” “Emma,” I whispered. “This is Tommy.” “Emma,” he said, and the way he said my name… it was like it mattered. “I can see you’ve been taking care of him. You are so brave. But you can’t carry him all the way in this storm. Let me drive you. Please.” I looked at Tommy. His lips were almost purple. I knew the man was right. “I’ll make you a deal,” James said, his eyes steady on mine. “You can call 911 if I do anything that scares you. We’re going straight to the hospital. Nowhere else. I give you my word.” I didn’t have a phone. Aunt Margaret sold Mama’s old one. But I liked the deal. He was treating me like a person. I nodded. “Okay.” He moved fast, but carefully. He untied the rope from my waist, his hands gentle. He lifted Tommy, blankets and all, and I saw him flinch at how light he was. The back of the Mercedes was leather. It was so warm, it almost hurt. James put Tommy on the seat beside me. I pulled him close. “Keep him warm,” James said, turning up the heat. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.” He drove fast, but he was good. He picked up his phone, and I tensed. But he was just calling the hospital. “This is James Castellano. I’m ten minutes out with a 7-year-old girl and her 16-month-old brother. The baby is critical. Respiratory distress, severe hypothermia, possible sepsis. Have a pediatric team ready. Now.” He hung up and looked at me in the rearview mirror. “How long has he been sick?” “Since yesterday. It got really bad this morning.” “Has he seen a doctor?” I shook my head. “Where are your parents?” The question landed like a punch. “Mama died. Daddy died before that. We live with our Aunt Margaret and Uncle Rick.” He didn’t ask the next question. Why aren’t they here? He didn’t have to. He just looked at my thin jacket, my bruised face, my raw hands. He knew. “They’re going to take care of him, Emma,” he said instead, his voice rough. “The doctors at this hospital. They’re the best. They’re going to make him better.” I wanted to believe him so badly, it ached.
