the look on my face and settles down, wincing when I dab the wet cloth again, trying to clear away the worst of the grit and blood before I clean the wounds with the peroxide I found in the medicine cabinet.
We’re in the house with the ponds. I didn’t think about knocking the way we had at the pet lady’s house—with a limp and moaning Opal in my arms, I’d shoved the front door open and taken her upstairs to the master bathroom. That’s where my parents kept all the medical supplies, and itwas the same in this house. Fortunately, the master bath was bright from the bank of windows overlooking the backyard and the ponds, and also a skylight. I’d settled Opal on the still-fluffy bath mat while I looked for stuff to take care of her cuts, but she roused herself when I started to clean them.
I swipe at the drying blood on her cheek and focus on the slice on her forehead. It’s not too deep, but it probably could use a stitch at one end, where the gravel left a small triangular flap of skin. I do my best to smooth it into place as Opal whimpers.
“You’ll have a scar,” I say.
She brightens at this and gets to her feet to look at herself in the mirror. “Cooooooool.”
“Let me put some Band-Aids on it.” I wash my hands at the sink, using soap from a dust-covered but half-full dispenser. I dry them on the hand towel and gesture for her to face me.
It takes only another minute or so to get all of Opal’s scrapes and slices covered. She admires her reflection again, turning her face side to side, and I shake my head as I watch her. My hands have finally stopped shaking.
Behind us, a shadow flickers in the doorway.
Opal sees it, too, and we both turn. I put out an arm to keep her from leaping forward. Tense, I listen.
“Velvet …”
“Shhh.”
Something’s in the bedroom. I hear the soft, rapid
shush-shush
of breathing, the shuffle of feet on the carpet. I hold my own breath and put a hand over Opal’s mouth to keep her from saying anything else.
Connies aren’t sneaky. Most can’t speak, but that doesn’t mean they’re quiet. Connies groan and grunt and flail; they stumble and stagger and knock stuff over.
I listen, listen, listen.
Something rattles like jewelry on top of a dresser. Door hinges creak. I hear a heavy thump.
Opal’s lips move against my palm, her voice muffled. “What is it …”
I look around the bathroom for something to use as a weapon. How stupid I’ve been, going anywhere without one. It’s not like I can head into town with a golf club strapped to my back without getting into a lot of trouble, but why didn’t I think about needing something while wandering through the neighborhood?
All I can find is the handle to a mop, tucked in the corner by the toilet. It’s the kind with the removable foot you’re supposed to cover with special wet cloths. Gripping it, I step down on the foot and break it off, making the end of the handle pointy.
Opal’s staring with wide eyes as I heft the handle, then toss it back and forth from hand to hand. It’s lightweight, but metal. Once, I stabbed a Connie in the eye with a penknife. A mop handle should work, too.
I gesture for Opal to stay behind me. Instead, my sister grabs a pair of nail scissors I didn’t notice from the counter and holds them up. I’m trying to silently argue with her, but she shakes her head, her brow furrowed so hard, it bunches up the bandage. That has to hurt.
“Opal!”
Before I can stop her, she hurtles herself through the doorway, scissors raised, with a battle yell that would shame a Viking. I’m after her in a second, grabbing the back of her shirt to keep her from going too far. The fabric rips—it’s an old shirt, one she’s almost outgrown, and I’m left with nothing but a scrap of material in my fist as Opal screams and lunges toward …
A puppy.
Barking, it stands its ground, even as a puddle spreads out beneath its paws. The poor thing’s shivering and shaking, tiny teeth
We’re in the house with the ponds. I didn’t think about knocking the way we had at the pet lady’s house—with a limp and moaning Opal in my arms, I’d shoved the front door open and taken her upstairs to the master bathroom. That’s where my parents kept all the medical supplies, and itwas the same in this house. Fortunately, the master bath was bright from the bank of windows overlooking the backyard and the ponds, and also a skylight. I’d settled Opal on the still-fluffy bath mat while I looked for stuff to take care of her cuts, but she roused herself when I started to clean them.
I swipe at the drying blood on her cheek and focus on the slice on her forehead. It’s not too deep, but it probably could use a stitch at one end, where the gravel left a small triangular flap of skin. I do my best to smooth it into place as Opal whimpers.
“You’ll have a scar,” I say.
She brightens at this and gets to her feet to look at herself in the mirror. “Cooooooool.”
“Let me put some Band-Aids on it.” I wash my hands at the sink, using soap from a dust-covered but half-full dispenser. I dry them on the hand towel and gesture for her to face me.
It takes only another minute or so to get all of Opal’s scrapes and slices covered. She admires her reflection again, turning her face side to side, and I shake my head as I watch her. My hands have finally stopped shaking.
Behind us, a shadow flickers in the doorway.
Opal sees it, too, and we both turn. I put out an arm to keep her from leaping forward. Tense, I listen.
“Velvet …”
“Shhh.”
Something’s in the bedroom. I hear the soft, rapid
shush-shush
of breathing, the shuffle of feet on the carpet. I hold my own breath and put a hand over Opal’s mouth to keep her from saying anything else.
Connies aren’t sneaky. Most can’t speak, but that doesn’t mean they’re quiet. Connies groan and grunt and flail; they stumble and stagger and knock stuff over.
I listen, listen, listen.
Something rattles like jewelry on top of a dresser. Door hinges creak. I hear a heavy thump.
Opal’s lips move against my palm, her voice muffled. “What is it …”
I look around the bathroom for something to use as a weapon. How stupid I’ve been, going anywhere without one. It’s not like I can head into town with a golf club strapped to my back without getting into a lot of trouble, but why didn’t I think about needing something while wandering through the neighborhood?
All I can find is the handle to a mop, tucked in the corner by the toilet. It’s the kind with the removable foot you’re supposed to cover with special wet cloths. Gripping it, I step down on the foot and break it off, making the end of the handle pointy.
Opal’s staring with wide eyes as I heft the handle, then toss it back and forth from hand to hand. It’s lightweight, but metal. Once, I stabbed a Connie in the eye with a penknife. A mop handle should work, too.
I gesture for Opal to stay behind me. Instead, my sister grabs a pair of nail scissors I didn’t notice from the counter and holds them up. I’m trying to silently argue with her, but she shakes her head, her brow furrowed so hard, it bunches up the bandage. That has to hurt.
“Opal!”
Before I can stop her, she hurtles herself through the doorway, scissors raised, with a battle yell that would shame a Viking. I’m after her in a second, grabbing the back of her shirt to keep her from going too far. The fabric rips—it’s an old shirt, one she’s almost outgrown, and I’m left with nothing but a scrap of material in my fist as Opal screams and lunges toward …
A puppy.
Barking, it stands its ground, even as a puddle spreads out beneath its paws. The poor thing’s shivering and shaking, tiny teeth
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