Decker is tugging on my arm. His dark eyes are so wide the whites show all around.
“Calm down.” I peel his fingers from my sleeve. “It’s just for a look.”
I touch the spot on my forehead where he hit me with a rock when he first saw me. It’s stopped bleeding, but it smarts. Instead of apologizing, he told me it made me look less naff.
Decker kicks at a chunk of brick. He looks up and away, into the gray sky. There used to be towers and high rises blocking the view here, but they’ve all been turned to rubble. When he sniffs and rubs his face on his sleeve, it leaves streaks in the dust on his skin.
I jerk awake in the passenger seat, bang my head against the window glass, then wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. Mmm, drool.
“We’re here,” Mom says. Her hands are like the tiny tremors of a Hollywood Chihuahua. “This is the last one, young lady. Do you hear me?”
Uh oh. She used “young lady,” as if I want to be one of those, along with “do-you-hear-me” when she knows perfectly well I hear her. She’s the only thing I’ve been able to hear during my summer-long grounding. And her voice? It’s about as interesting as those Hollywood Chihuahuas. I twist Dad’s wedding ring around my thumb, careful to keep it under the sleeve of my hoodie. Mom believes he was buried with it. Oops.