Page 9

The motel we’re staying in is just on the nice side of dingy, clean but worn down, the color fading from the wallpaper and the baseboard dinged from decades of cleaning carts and luggage running up against it.

It’s the nicest place Sarina has ever slept in her life.

“Mom!” she calls from the bathroom, her eyes wide as she pokes her head out. “The water just keeps coming!”

“Don’t waste it,” I warn, because I don’t want her to get used to the limitless water of indoor plumbing. Sooner rather than later, we’ll be going back to what we had before. A different kind of living, one that makes you appreciate your resources more.

I hear the sink turn off, and Sarina comes out, her face scrubbed pink, her hair piled on top of her head.

Since she was little, she’s followed my lead on everything—even the way I do my hair for bed, my routine.

Sometimes, I’m shocked by how smart she is, how capable kids are at learning things.

It’s not like I ever sat her down and said she should follow a routine each night—she just saw me doing it, and so did it herself.

Sarina sits down in the middle of her big queen bed. I won’t, but I want to ask her to sleep in my bed tonight. I want to tuck my arms around her—it feels like the only way I’m going to be able to get any sleep.

I’m still exhausted from the casting I did in the hospital, and my body feels more like an amalgamation of parts than a cohesive, capable thing.

My muscles complain each time I attempt to use them.

Even holding my head up drains my energy, a soft burning sensation spreading across my shoulders and back when I try to do it.

“Sarina,” I say, “would you double check that the door is locked?”

I hear her stand from her bed, then a moment later, there’s the sound of the lock moving, Sarina pulling on the door handle.

“It’s locked,” she says.

“Can you move this end table?” I ask, gesturing to it. If she can’t, I’ll get up. But I’m really hoping she can.

Sarina carefully unplugs the little alarm, the lamp, then drags the end table over the carpet toward the door, alternating between dragging and walking it.

Just before she reaches it, there’s a knock, which makes my body surge with adrenaline. I’m on my feet, out of the bed, and ignoring every ounce of pain in my body as I move toward my daughter and the threat on the other side of the door.

I still can’t smell anything.

Go , I mouth to Sarina, then point at the bathroom. Lock the door.

I have never been more grateful that my daughter is smart, and used to following my instructions. She crosses the room and silently shuts the bathroom door. A moment later, I hear the lock click.

The knock comes again, and before I can figure out how to peek outside, how to call Dorian—or someone —a voice drifts through.

“Veva?”

A feminine voice. Familiar.

“It’s Kira. Can I come in?”

The air exits my body in one large whoosh , and I instantly feel weak as I reach for the handle. I open the door only a crack, peering out, finding the short, curvy woman standing on the landing, a dish wrapped in foil in her hands.

“Sorry to bother you,” she says, the moment her gaze lands on my face.

She must be able to see the exhaustion there, see how tired I am.

How all this is weighing on me. More than anything, I wish I could cast, lace this room with protective spells.

But I’m a wrung-out rag, the magic that normally fizzes under the surface of my skin gone.

Like my body is using all its energy to repair what is broken.

As if in response to the thought, my forehead starts to pulse painfully.

“Oh,” Kira says, frowning and reaching into her pocket. “Your nose—”

I open the door and let her in, knocking one-two, one-two on the door to the bathroom. Sarina opens it slowly, fear and determination on her face until she sees me.

“Mom—you’re bleeding—”

“Watch out, love.”

I move into the small bathroom, tip my nose back, whip the toilet paper from the holder and wad it up there. Everything hurts—my nose throbbing, and consistent, looping migraine swimming just behind my eyes.

By the time I come out of the bathroom, I find Kira sitting on the end of the bed, while Sarina sits at the small table, already halfway through a serving of what looks like chicken pot pie.

My stomach turns at the thought of eating, my mouth tasting of blood, my throat sour.

I stare at the food, wishing I could have cast over it, checked to make sure it was okay.

But Kira is feeding my daughter, and as of this moment, I have no choice but to trust her.

My eyes wander to the packet of almonds and the Pop-Tart sitting on the other nightstand. The dinner I’d been about to serve up.

“Thank you,” I say, hearing how nasally I sound.

“Has it been bleeding a lot?” Kira asks, eyes pulling from Sarina and moving to me. “We could call the healer—”

“No, no,” I shake my head. “I just stood up too fast, I think. Thank you for the food, that was really kind.”

“I figured a home-cooked meal might do you good,” Kira smiles, and tips her head, letting some of that pretty copper hair roll over her shoulders. She’s wearing a jumper-style dress that fits her body well. It almost looks tailored.

“Plus,” Kira goes on, “I had so many meals stocked up from before I had the boys, and this one needed to come out of the deep freeze.”

“The boys?” I ask, eyes widening. “You-you and Dorian?”

Kira’s eyes go soft. “Yes, I know it’s weird. Believe me, he’s making up for being such a tool in high school. So far, he’s even given me two beautiful babies as reparations.”

She laughs, and a moment later, I’m watching as she scrolls through photos on her phone, showing me the twins as tiny little, wrinkled things. I watch as they fill out, lift their heads, give their first gummy smiles.

“Are they around six months?” I ask, eyes darting to Kira, who’s still smiling at her phone.

“Yes!” she says, beaming. “Lots of people think they’re younger than that, but they’re just small for their age. What about yours?”

“Eight,” I say, hoping it’s quiet enough that Sarina doesn’t hear. Luckily, she doesn’t—too absorbed in the food in front of her, the abandoned magazine she’s flipping through, eyes drinking in the photos and articles.

That girl will read anything.

Lowering her voice, Kira says, “Dorian is working on sending that message now. But I wanted to ask—is there anything else you girls need? If I get Sarina’s measurements, I could make a few dresses for her. We also have a thrift store—”

I’m already shaking my head. “No, Kira, that’s so kind, but it’s too much.”

“Please,” she says, taking my hand in hers, and I’m so shocked at the contact that I forget to pull away. Her eyes meet mine. “I’ve done nothing but nurse, burp, change and sleep for the past six months. I would love a project.”

I bite my tongue, but call Sarina over. She asks Kira a million questions as she takes her measurements, and Kira asks for her favorite colors.

Then, just before she goes, Kira stops, eyes lingering on me for a long moment. Even without magic, I can tell she wants to ask about Emin and I, and I will her not to.

“Veva,” she finally says. “Is there anything else you need? Anything at all?”

“Actually,” I laugh, glancing at my daughter. “Would you mind helping us get our hands on a library card?”

Kira’s eyes light up. “I’d love to. Let’s plan to go first thing tomorrow, okay?”

“Library card?” Sarina is listening now, her eyes wide and bright on me. For the first time, I feel a pang of regret about the way I’ve chosen to raise her.

The camp has taught her community, resilience, but there are a lot of things about this type of life that would be good for her, too. With her love of reading, the library will be like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

“Sure,” Kira smiles, her hand on the door. “You can even get your own, Sarina.”

After Kira leaves, that idea hovers in the air. Sarina having her own card—having endless access to books like that.

I get the deep, bone-sure feeling that Sarina and I are setting off in a different direction now, that her mind is always going to be a bit different after this experience.

But I don’t have the energy to work it out, don’t have the willpower to think it through. The only thing I can do, after the door shuts behind Kira, closing out the sunshine and plunging our motel room back into darkness, is sleep.

Except not even a minute later, Kira is knocking again.

“One second,” I say, peeling myself up off the bed.

She must have forgotten to take her dish with her. I grab it from the table, walk past Sarina, and open the door.