Sophie Littlefield - Horizon

Cass’s mind swam with what he was proposing. All those people-all the favors he was willing to trade on her behalf. She wanted to know why. What she asked instead was, “What trailer?”

“It’s a little old flatbed three-wheeler. It was the one Zihna and me came in here with. Came from her place, to be fair, but I expect she won’t mind sharing with her old man,” he said, smiling.

What other choice did she have? Smoke wouldn’t make it four steps down the road, despite his amazing journey across the island. Still, maybe there was another way; maybe she could convince them to give him passage in one of the vehicles. She had to find out who was in charge and could make decisions.

“I don’t know what you’ve been planning,” Red began, “but there are some things you should know. Milt and Jack already took Charles down to the end of the island, about forty-five minutes ago. Charles didn’t make the trip back with them.”

Charles-Cass’s heart lurched at the memory of the frail, scabbed man who was in the late stages of AIDS, which he had controlled Before but which ravaged his body now that the steady stream of medicine was gone.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Cass?”

She stared out at the scene unfolding in front of her. The bonfire was growing, wood stacked high and sparks flying. Collette and her friends, waving their hands at the pile of burning belongings. Luddy had his longboard under his arm; for once it didn’t seem like a ridiculous thing for a grown man to own. Two of the guys worked on upended bicycles. What did they think they were going to do with those-outrun the rest of them? Then they would be traveling alone come daylight, with no defense against the Beaters’ speed.

Not odds that Cass would take. But still, at least they had plans of some sort.

“But.” She swallowed, raking her hair with her hands. “Why? Why do you want to help us?”

Red hesitated, and then searched her face with his intense gaze, the one she’d noticed so many times before. It seemed like he was about to confide or confess something; then the moment passed, and he shrugged. “Zihna and I…we like kids. We like helping people. And Ruthie…well, we’ve always thought she was special.”

His voice broke oddly on the last word, and Cass saw that he rocked Ruthie in his arms. It was true that he and Zihna had always been kind to Ruthie-in the days following the chill that formed between Cass and the other women, hadn’t they been extra solicitous, always talking to her at mealtimes, taking the time to chat when Cass and she walked around the island?

Still, Cass was uncomfortable with Red’s suggestion. Hell, she wouldn’t be the first to raise an eyebrow at the two older people taking such an interest in the kids, especially the teens, even though no one had ever picked up on anything inappropriate going on with the couple.

Cass had taken risks with Ruthie’s safety that she never should have. She’d left her daughter with strangers so she could work, or drink, or date. She wanted to trust her instincts. Sometimes it seemed like they were all she had left to navigate with. But right now, as the island descended into chaos all around her, was not the time.

“Thank you,” she said formally. “But as generous as your offer of help is, I’ll take my chances-mine and Ruthie’s-alone.”

Red’s face sagged, the sadness in his eyes reflected in the eerie glow of the flashlight, and he went still.

“I can’t let you do that, Cassie,” he said softly.

A strange premonition snaked up Cass’s spine, something so familiar and yet just out of reach. “Why?”

“Because this is too important. Because she’s my granddaughter. Cass…listen to me. It’s me …your dad.”

THIS TIME WHEN Cass felt the breath leave her, the ground rushing up to meet her and cave her in, she did not yield to it.

No no no he’s not

The man-her dad-because of course it was him. It was wily old Silver Dollar Haverford, shape-shifted anew, more worn but no less crafty and elusive. How could she not have recognized that voice-the one that had once sung her lullabies? The one that called from the road with ever-diminishing frequency, always a new number, a borrowed phone when times were tough, as they nearly always were. Sometimes she heard a woman in the background; other times the din of Greyhound stations or taverns.

And always, always, she asked him the same question: “When are you coming home, Daddy?”

How long did it take until she figured out that he never would? Oh, but that was the genius of old Silver Dollar-he could make you believe. He waited until you’d just about given up hope and then he’d show up, all smiles and hugs and trinkets in his pockets, embroidered blouses and clay whistles from Tijuana, bags of apples from Washington. A dress for her mother. Promises to stay, this time and the next. The two of them would go out for dinner, come home laughing and loud, then whispering in the living room, him singing and her dancing, and Cass in her bed would be happy because surely this time it would last, surely this time he’d see that they all belonged together?

The last time he ever came home was her eighth birthday. Well, a week later, anyway-the delay broke his heart but was unavoidable, of course, and stupid, stupid Cass, she believed him. He took her to a baseball game, called her his little lady, said maybe they could go skiing that winter once it got cold enough.

And then he was gone forever.

She’d tried to find him, just once. It was after her mother took up with Byrn, after her stepfather started coming into the hall late at night when Cass was in her nightgown, pretending to be on the way to the bathroom at the same time, “accidentally” touching her down there when they passed.

Cass had searched every town she could think of that her dad had ever mentioned. She stole her mother’s credit card out of her purse and used it for an internet service that promised to track down missing loved ones; the fifty-dollar report included six known addresses, but the most she ever found were a few irate landlords who remembered her father well.

By the time she finally gave up, her mother had gotten the bill and was furious. And her anger only grew when Cass tried to tell her what had been going on late at night, that Byrn lurked in the halls, touched her through the thin nightgown, followed her back to her room and whispered warnings while he fumbled with his zipper. She told Cass to consider long and hard if telling lies was worth getting thrown out of the house over and Cass-who was fourteen and had no idea how to even get a work permit-gave up and sealed her heart forever against the man who’d abandoned her to this fate.

And now this man, this old craggy man her father had somehow become, was actually crying, his cheeks shiny in the flashlight glow. Suddenly that enraged Cass more than anything else.

“You don’t, you don’t, ” she gasped. “You don’t get to cry. ”

She seized Ruthie and wrested her from his arms, her body floppy and hot and damp in sleep. Ruthie began to wail and went stiff in her arms, but Cass fought her, holding her tightly, and backed down the steps, away from Red, away from her father.

“Stay away from us.” Her voice rose to a wail, rusty and choked with sobs. “Just-just stay away. ”

She picked up Ruthie’s Tinkerbell pack, the glittery wings shimmering in the dark.

Then she turned and ran.

SAMMI WAS DOING her best to keep her shit together, but it felt like she was becoming unglued from the inside. Sage was over talking to Phillip through the slits in the windows and refused to come back to the house. Colton was nowhere to be found. And there was something wrong with Kyra. She wouldn’t get off the bed, wouldn’t help pack, wouldn’t even tell Sammi what was wrong. She just sat on the bed with her knees pulled up as far as she could, her arms wrapped around her legs, rocking and sniffling.