Three

I’m eight years old when my momma dies in front of me.

She’s been nervous since breakfast. Halfway through pancakes, she walks into the living room with the phone and leaves me alone with the syrup, which I manage to dip my braid in.

I’m trying to clean it up best I can when Momma’s voice rises from the living room: “Will, no, listen—I’m coming right now. You don’t need to worry. Forty minutes. Okay? I’ll be right there. Don’t be scared, honey. Don’t let Carl in. Don’t let your mom unlock the door. I’ll be right there, I promise.”

My hair’s making a sticky puddle on my shirt when Momma comes back.

“Harley,” she sighs, and wipes the ends of my hair with a wet paper towel. “Run and get dressed. We’re going into town.”

“It’s not Wednesday.” On Wednesdays, Uncle Jake drives us in his truck to grocery shop, and I sit between them on the bench seat. Momma likes to sing along to the radio, to ladies who sing about coal mining and broken hearts, and men whose deep voices remind me of Daddy’s.

“I know, sweetie. Just do as I say.”

She’s waiting by the front door when I come back downstairs, dressed in my jeans and boots. She grabs the pink-and-black cowboy hat Uncle Jake bought me at the fair and plops it onto my head. She keeps her hand on my shoulder after we get into the Chevy, and doesn’t let go until we’re all the way into town.

She won’t turn on the radio, and she rolls up all the windows even though it’s edging into summer. Every few minutes she glances at her phone, tapping it against her leg.

“Where are we going?” I ask when she drives past the grocery store.

“To see a friend.”

She turns the truck onto a street I don’t recognize, with dirt and patchy grass in the yards and jacked-up, rusted-out cars without tires sitting in the driveways. The houses grow sparser until there are acres between them and the road turns to dirt. Momma keeps driving until we get to the end of the road.

She doesn’t stop right in front of the rickety ranch house, spread low and sagging against the land. Instead, she turns the truck around and parks across the road. Then she leans over the seat to flip open the glove compartment. Her long hair swings across her shoulder and brushes against my arm, silky and smelling like flowers.

My eyes widen when I realize that she’s got her semi-automatic in her hand. I watch as she calmly snaps the magazine into place.

“Momma—”

She smiles reassuringly at me, stroking my head with the hand that’s not holding the gun. “It’s fine, baby,” she says. “You’ve gotta do something for me, okay? No matter what, you stay in the truck. A nice boy named Will is gonna come out of the house. He’s ten, and he’s gonna sit with you. You let him in, and then you two lock the doors. Don’t let anyone but me in. You got that?”

I nod unsurely. She’s smiling, but she looks weird, her eyes shiny and wet.

“Repeat it back to me,” Momma directs gently.

I do, trying hard not to let my voice shake.

Momma kisses me on the forehead and stares at me for a long second. “Good girl,” she says. “I love you. I’ll be right back.”

I watch as she strides up the road and to the house. She doesn’t even knock on the door, just turns the knob and walks in, leaving it wide open.

My fingers grip the edge of the dashboard, my chin propped up between them. I scoot until my knees are jammed up against the glove compartment, my nose inches away from the windshield. It’s stuffy inside the truck, and I bat at the pine-tree air freshener hanging on the mirror, watching it spin and wishing I could open a window. But I do what Momma says.

Movement in the house’s front yard pulls my attention back. A black-haired boy bursts out of the house, his skinny legs narrowing into bony ankles and bare feet. He pelts across the yard toward me. Dust flies behind him, and I pull on the door handle, pushing it open as he comes running up.

“You Will?”

He nods, panting. I hold out my hand, and even though he doesn’t need to, he grabs it and climbs up into the cab.

“What’s going on?” I ask him as he shuts the door and slams his palm down on the lock.

“The other one locked?” he asks.

I nod.

“You got the keys?”

I hold out the set Momma had pressed into my hand before getting out of the truck.

“Good,” Will says.

“What’s going on? Where’s my momma?”

“She’s with my mom,” Will says. “We’re gonna wait until Carl leaves.”

“Who’s Carl?”

“Mom’s boyfriend,” Will says, but he says it like it’s something dirty in his mouth. The skin below his left eye’s swollen and puffy, and there’s a trail of big circular scabs running up his left arm. “Don’t worry. Your momma’ll make him leave. She’s done it before. It’ll be okay.”

Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, it happens.

There’s a roar, so loud and unlike anything I’ve ever heard, cracking and shattering and popping all at once. I yell and clap my hands over my ears. And suddenly, the house just isn’t there anymore. All I can see is fire and black smoke, bits of wood flying up to the sky and then raining down on the truck like a hailstorm.

Will’s mouth moves, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He’s leaning over, yanking the keys away, and he jams them into the ignition.

Suddenly, it all catches up with me, like the world froze and now it’s rushing forward. Fire. Smoke. Pieces of wood—pieces of the house—slamming down on the Chevy’s hood and roof.

Momma!

I scream for her and lunge for the door, scrabbling at the handle, trying to get it to open, but it’s locked. Will grabs my arm, fighting me with one hand. He yanks me toward him as he starts up the engine, stretches his long legs, and presses hard on the gas. The truck leaps backward, away from the pieces of wood, shingles, and plaster that fly everywhere, shaking the truck and cracking the windshield. Will steers one-handed as he jerks me against his side, practically pinning me there, and he doesn’t let go.

We spin away from the explosion, debris flying off the hood, and it’s too fast. The bed of the truck tilts off the road into a ditch with a thump, so the cab’s angled up, and then we’re stopped, far enough away to be safe. Will’s hand is still on my arm, and mine’s on his now, grabbing him back just as hard as we stare out the busted windshield.

And we watch whatever’s left of our mothers burn.