Page 19 of Trailer Park Princess

The bird tilts its head at me, and I swear it understands.

"Go on," I say, lifting my hands and letting the dirty towels fall away. "Go be free or whatever."

For a moment, it doesn't move. Just sits there in my palms like it's not sure what to do with all this freedom.

Then, without warning, it launches itself into the air.

Its wings spread wide, backlit by the setting sunlight filtering through the trees, and it's beautiful. It circles once, twice, like it's saying goodbye, then disappears into the canopy.

"Fuck," I whisper, and I'm crying. Actually crying over a stupid bird that probably won't even remember us tomorrow.

"You're crying," Cyrus observes, because he's helpful like that. Real boy genius material.

"No shit, really? I hadn't noticed the water coming out of my eyes." I wipe at my face angrily. "It's just a bird. A stupid fucking bird."

"Come here," Jinx says, pulling me into a hug before I can protest. His arms are longer than they used to be, wrapping around me completely. "Cy, get in here."

"I don't do group hugs?—"

"Get in here or I'm telling everyone about your anime body pillow."

"It's not anime, it's a fucking Moomin and I haven't had that thing since I was five," Cyrus snaps, but he joins the hug anyway, his bony arms awkward but trying.

"We've still got each other," Jinx says into my hair. "That's never changing. It's always gonna be us."

I want to believe him so bad.

Want to believe that we'll survive Tank and Kade being gone, that Cyrus won't get caught for his increasingly risky hacking, that Jinx won't disappear into himself the way he does sometimes when Kyle's being particularly shitty.

But standing here in this clearing where we used to be invincible, I can feel everything shifting. Like tectonic plates grinding against each other before an earthquake. Change is coming whether we want it or not.

All I can do is hold on to this moment and pretend it's going to last forever.

Chapter 5

KADE

Age Fifteen

The concrete burnsunder my legs even through my juvie-issued khakis, but I've claimed this particular corner of the yard as mine, so here I fucking sit.

Four months in this shithole and I own more real estate than I ever did on the outside. Funny how incarceration works—lockup a bunch of feral kids and watch them recreate the same hierarchies they had on the streets, just with uglier uniforms.

Tank lounges against the fence beside me, all six-foot-whatever of him casting enough shade that the smaller kids gravitate toward us like moths to a really intimidating flame.

Not much to do in this place except scheme and lift weights, and one look at my brother is enough to tell which one's his favorite pastime and which one's mine.

I've bulked up, too, but Tank is… well, a fucking tank. Even more than usual. He's got his arms crossed, bandana pulled up over his lower face despite the heat, watching our little empire with those dark eyes that miss nothing.

Even the guards give him a wide berth. Especially after that bitch ass guard with the mullet caught a glimpse of what's under the bandana. After that, we started getting special treatment. Guess he figured a guy who'd survived that wasn't to be fucked with, even with a baton and a taser strapped to his side.

Same stupid story with my aunt and uncle, which is why they were clinging to each other with fuckingreliefwhile they watched Tank getting loaded into the back of a cop car like a rabid dog. My aunt was always scared shitless she'd see Tank's face again. Wouldn't even let him eat at the table with us, not that he would have even wanted to anyway.

They'd send him away for good without thinking twice if it weren't for the fat wad of cash the state gives them for taking care of a "problem" foster kid.

Joke's on them, though. Tank's not the problem.

I'mthe problem.