The door opens again.
He's back. Holding a bottle of water.
He doesn't offer me any.
I let out the breath I was holding.
Not yet. Not my chance yet.
But it will come.
I just have to stay awake. Stay ready.
I close my eyes for just a second.
No.
I force them open.
Think about something else.
The first time I saw snow.
I was four. We'd driven up to Wisconsin to visit Papa's cousins, and I'd woken up to a world transformed. Everything white and glittering and impossibly beautiful.
I'd run outside in my pajamas, barefoot, before anyone could stop me. The cold had shocked me, but I hadn't cared. I'd stood there with my arms spread wide, catching snowflakes on my tongue, laughing at nothing and everything.
Papa had scooped me up and carried me back inside, scolding me the whole way. But he'd been smiling. I remember that. He'd been smiling.
Before Mama got sick.
Before the gambling.
Before everything fell apart.
He used to smile.
I used to make him smile.
My throat tightens.
I won't cry. I won't give them the satisfaction.
I think about Bruno instead.
The way he looked at me when I told him I was pregnant. The shock. The disbelief. And then—underneath all of it—something that looked like hope.
He wants this baby.
He wants me.
He'll come for us.
I know he will.
I just have to stay awake until he does.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN