Prologue: The Storm at the Door

The One Who Leaves, Prologue

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It was the season of fire. The flames crawled through the Cajon Pass and into the Mojave at the speed of light. The temperatures climbed well into the triple digits and ash fell from the sky like snow. The heat spread through the walls, and Mom’s toothpick arm draped over me, sticky with sweat. I could feel the rise and fall of her chest against my body.

The walls began to shake like a storm was at the bedroom door. Since we lived in a dust-bowl town that had been abandoned by the rain, it couldn’t have been thunder. But whatever it was, it was getting louder. I tightened my grip around my stuffed elephant and rolled in closer to Mom. The bed squeaked beneath me, a tiny sound swallowed by the growing noise. Her long black curls fell over me like wild strands of tangled ivy and tingled my face. She smelled like cigarettes and baby oil. Somewhere under that, the faintest trace of her cheap Walmart perfume still lingered, the one she put on before she left the night before. The sound was getting louder, but Mom hadn’t stirred.

The room was dark, other than the clock sitting on the nightstand where bright red numbers glared off into the blackness. I wondered if it was morning, but I couldn’t see any signs of day because Mom and Dad had nailed blankets over the window to keep the light out, to keep the world outside from creeping in.

But the world was coming for us anyway.

Then the door flew off its hinges as if a cannonball had been shot through the wall. Light poured in where the door used to be, and hands I didn’t recognize reached over top of me toward Mom. She sat up in one abrupt fluid motion like a stone out of a slingshot.

“Don’t fucking touch her!”