five

I head to town for medical supplies. I emerge behind the trailer, as always. There are good people in Reeve’s End. The kind who keep too close an eye on a girl living with her drunk father. The kind who notice every bruise and don’t accept “I fell” as an excuse. Also the kind who, if they knew I was living in the forest, would find a bed for me. I appreciate that. I just don’t want it. This is another thing Reeve’s End has taught me: pride and self-reliance. I’ll survive and I’ll escape and I’ll do it on my own.

To my relief, Bert’s pickup is gone. I slip into the trailer and shower off the blood and dirt and any other sign that I haven’t spent my evening studying. Then I re-dress my leg and head to Robson’s Pharma.

I’m there in less than ten minutes. I cut through the food aisle on my way to the medical supplies. It’s Wednesday, which is when the sales start. Protein bars are half price. Past the sell-by date, but they’re a cheap and easy meal. I’m dumping a handful into my basket when Mr. Robson comes by.

“Hey, Winter. You’re out late.”

“I lost track of time studying.”

He smiles. “Course you did.” He moves closer, voice lowering. “Can you tell your daddy I ain’t gonna be able to pay the usual for his dope?”

Despite this being the pharmacy, dope doesn’t mean drugs. It’s the local term for soda pop. As for why Mr. Robson would be buying that from my father, it’s food-stamp fencing. Bert buys Coke with his stamps and resells it to Mr. Robson for cash.

“Tell him I’m real sorry,” Mr. Robson says. “But maybe this month he ought to use his stamps for food.”

I resist the urge to snort. Mr. Robson means well. That doesn’t stop me from taking advantage—just a little—of his discomfort, picking up one of the protein bars from my basket and saying, “Huh. I didn’t see these were past the sell-by date.”

“Are they? Well, now, you’re right. Good eye. How about I give you another half off? Take a few more if you want ’em.”

“I will. They ought to be good for a while yet. Thanks.” I grab another handful. “Oh, and if you hear of folks needing the doc’s help, he’s having trouble with a polecat coming round his chickens. He’d ’preciate someone getting rid of it.”

“I know a few families with little’uns who’d like to hear that. I’ll tell ’em directly, Winter.”

I take my bars with another thank-you and head toward the medical supplies section, where I can hear an old-timer at the pharmacy counter.

“—just about ate up with the cancer, poor thing,” she’s saying.

“Uh-huh,” comes the reply, in a voice I know well. Tanner Robson, the owner’s son. I try to duck around the corner before he spots me, but he calls, “Hey, Winter,” hoping to free himself from the ear-bending.

I rescue him with some school chatter as I gather my supplies for Lennon. We lose most of the local dialect as we talk. We’re taught “proper” English, but if we use it with older folks here, it makes us seem stuck up. We speak school English with each other and outside Reeve’s End. Well, mostly. When Edie and I worked at the reenactment site, she’d ramp up dialect for the tourists—“Where y’all from?” and “An iPad? We ain’t got nuthin’ like that in the holler.” I’d rolled my eyes until I realized she was getting double the tips, and I decided I was fine with reinforcing cultural stereotypes if it fattened my bank account.

Tanner and I talk for about twenty minutes. I like him. As a classmate, that is. A kinda-friend. Nothing more, even if he’s hinted—hard—that he’d like to change that. In another life, I’d be happy to go along with it. He’s shorter than me but cute, with a shock of blond hair, freckles, and a really sweet smile. He’s smart, too—he’ll go to college for pharmacology next year. But then he’ll come back and take over the store, and that’s the problem. I’m afraid I’d fall for him and tell myself Reeve’s End isn’t such a bad place and decide to come back.

Tanner said that to me once. Have you ever thought of coming back? After you’re a doctor? Reeve’s End could really use someone like you.

I’d made some excuse and hurried home. I’d wanted to curse Tanner for being insensitive. Instead, I’d buried my face in my pillow and cried. I know Reeve’s End will need a doctor. I know kids here need role models. But let that be someone else, like Tanner. Not me. Never me.

When I return to the shack, Lennon is awake but groggy. That alarms me, but the thermometer assures me he’s only a degree above normal. I find no reason to insist he get help, not when that means a twelve-mile trip to a doctor who’ll get pissy at a midnight call for a non-emergency.

I’ve brought my old sleeping bag, which smells faintly of mildew, and when Lennon insists on taking it, I let him. I still don’t sleep well. I’m a mile from town, lying beside a stranger. Yet I can’t leave him when he’s injured. So I doze on and off until dawn seeps through the window boards.

Once I’m ready to leave for school, I wake Lennon to check him over. His temperature is back to normal. The cut on his leg is cool and dry. His chest still hurts when he inhales deeply, but that’s to be expected—while bruised ribs hurt like hell, even Doc Southcott would only tell him to rest. I’m still not thrilled with the situation, but it’s the best I can do for now.