“With women who know exactly what it costs to run.”
That answers more than I want it to.
The afternoon stretches around us, full of waiting and bad news we don’t have yet. Lottie makes coffee. I don’t drink it. Janie keeps August busy when he wakes, telling him they need to pack because Lottie knows a place with other kids and maybe dogs.
August asks if Derby is coming.
I almost choke on the lie.
“Not yet,” I say.
August frowns. “Is he still in jail?”
“For now.”
“Did he hit Jeremy?”
I close my eyes.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The word shocks me so badly I open my eyes.
August looks at me with fierce little certainty. “Jeremy sent the dinosaur. Derby said surprise evidence gets checked. Jeremy cheated court.”
Lottie turns away fast, shoulders shaking.
I kneel in front of August and take his hands. “Baby, hitting isn’t how we solve things.”
“But Derby did.”
“Yes.”
“Is Derby bad?”
“No.”
“Then hitting Jeremy wasn’t bad.”
God help me.
This is exactly what I feared. My son learning violence as proof of love. My son sorting men into safe and unsafe by whohits whom. My son already building a moral world out of the wreckage adults keep handing him.
“That is why we’re going somewhere for a little while,” I say carefully. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. So nobody has to hit anybody for us.”
“Will Derby be mad?”
My voice breaks. “Maybe.”
“At me?”
“No.” I grab him gently by the shoulders. “Never at you.”
“At you?”
I don’t answer fast enough.