“Jack!” Lindsay gasps.
“Jesus Christ.” Jack runs a hand through his shaggy dark hair. “I wasn’t packing a handgun. It was a rifle. I heard there’s a place to go hunting over there.”
“That doesn’t make it any better, Jack,” Michelle says sharply. I feel sorry for him, trying to best her in an argument. It must be impossible.
“Hunting is barbaric,” Lindsay sniffs.
Jack makes a face at her. “You eat meat, don’t you, Lindsay? How do you think it gets to your plate? Do you think those animals die of natural causes?”
“It’s different when you’re hunting,” Lindsay says. “Have you ever seen Bambi? Remember when the hunter shot Bambi’s mother? Is that what you want, Jack? To be the one who kills Bambi’s mother?”
One corner of Jack’s lips tugs upward. “Don’t be fooled. If a deer had the chance, it would kill you and everyone you care about.”
Michelle pokes Jack in the ribs and he yelps in pain. “I thought it was something we could do together, Michelle.”
“You know I’ve got a ton of work to do during this trip,” Michelle sighs. “I’ll be lucky if I leave the room except for meals. But even if I didn’t, I would never go hunting. Ever.”
And now everyone is glaring at Jack.
“Look,” Jack says, “I didn’t bring the gun. I’m not going to kill Bambi’s mother. Let’s just get going.”
“Great idea,” Noah says. And once again, he hits the gas so hard that my neck snaps back.
Chapter 5
ANONYMOUS
The thing I remember most about my childhood is my mom’s car.
It was a green Dodge with a long scratch on the passenger side and a big dent in the front fender. She got it used before I can remember—that car was older than I was. She used to tell me how my dad went with her to the used car lot and negotiated with the sleazy salesman to get her a good deal. My dad was a salesman too. That’s how he knew the tricks. That’s also why he traveled so much.
My dad bought a car seat for the back when I was a little kid. He used to make a big deal about strapping me inside. “You all snug and safe back there, sport?” he would say.
But when my father went away on his trips, my mother would get depressed. She didn’t give a shit if I was strapped in snug and safe. When we went out, she said to get in the back and gave me ten seconds to get my seatbelt on. If the seatbelt wasn’t on by then, too damn bad. You think I have time to wait the rest of the day for you to strap yourself in?
Mostly, she would take me to the grocery store. She didn’t take me to friends’ houses, playgrounds, or anywhere fun. Just grocery stores. Or the gas station.
When I was four years old, when my dad was out of town, she took me out in the car. I couldn’t get the car seat buckled on my own so I just sat next to it in the back, behind the driver seat. The strap on the seatbelt went over my neck and cut into the skin. I knew better than to complain.
When we got to the grocery store, I started to follow her, but she shook her head. “I just need to get a few things,” she told me as she hung her big purple purse over her shoulder. “You stay in the car. I don’t need you slowing me down.”
Then she closed the door to the car with me inside.
She had left me in the car before. Lots of times. But today was hot. Hot enough that everyone on the street was wearing shorts and wife beater shirts, and fanning themselves as they talked about how damn hot it was.
When my mom was in the car, the air conditioner was going. You could barely feel it in the back, but it was circulating. Unfortunately, after she killed the engine, the temperature in the car started to go up.
At first, it wasn’t too bad. Hot, but I didn’t mind hot. Then it got hotter. So hot, it was hard to breathe. You know why it’s hard to breathe when it’s hot? Heat causes molecules to disperse, so each breath takes in less oxygen.
I was suffocating.
She said she would be right back. As I waited, it became clear it wasn’t going to be a quick grocery trip like she promised. But if I got out of the car, there would be consequences. Bad consequences.
So I sat there, the sweat beading on my forehead. And my eyes drifted shut.
I was jarred awake by pounding on my window. It was a woman about my mother’s age. I lifted my head and blinked my bleary eyes. The woman was yelling. “Are you okay? Can you open the door?”
I didn’t know what to do. My mom would be angry if I opened the door. But this woman kept pounding on the window. My head hurt. So I unlocked the car, and before I knew it, the woman was wrenching the door open.