Hewo, lovelies!

Like 50 views? Not bad for a first-timer :D If you'd R&R, that'd be swell, too. :)

Sooooooo... Yeah. This chapter's a bit dark, I guess, but ol' Frosty's making an appearance, so... Yeah.

I write (obsessively) for fun. Can't you tell? ^

Enjoy! Even if you don't... Meh. I honestly don't really care. This is more for my own enjoyment, to be quite frank with you. But if you have something you'd like to add/cut out/criticize, by all means, feel free to let me know! It would be nice for friends in the writing community to let me know how I'm doing in relation to real-world works :D

Thanks everybody!

doubtfulfig ^_^

Steam swirled around the ceiling, condensing along the top edge of the mirror. The fog reached down to muddle the image of the girl staring back at me. It caused her ample collection of freckles to blur together into one mass of red, like she'd just been complimented by a male. Which, believe me, was a miracle in and of itself. A dark brow, just a shade overgrown, arched sardonically over her right eye as she examined me. I mean, sure, we were getting a little hippy, and maybe we had a blaring red spot on our chin, but overall I didn't think we looked too shabby. Full lips curved up in a half grin, exposing moderately white teeth that had been perfected by braces a year before. Cheekbones poked out from under hair like black coffee, which hung down around her shoulders, reaching just past her chest-area. Where she lacked pathetically. Honestly, I could probably wear Jackie's bra over mine, and still have an inch or two of wiggle room.

Despite that, I didn't take any chances. I made sure to use the basement bathroom, bolting both locks and sliding the drawer door open, so he'd have to bust through the cabinetry to get to me. "He" as in Jason. The first time I had a shower here… well, let's just say it didn't go very well. It took me no time to learn the importance of five-minute showers.

But after the day I'd had, and the stupidly bitter winter I knew was going to settle down for the next six months, I decided to risk a bath. I mean, this bathroom worked just as well as the one upstairs, and, if circumstances escalated, I would be able to hear him stumbling down the steps before he reached here - enough time to throw a bathrobe on and sit against the door.

I sighed, sniffling a bit as the steam melted the contents of my nostrils, I sinking low into the hot water. I let my mind wander back to the guy who'd come into work earlier, splashing water up the sides of the tub gently.

I knew I wasn't insane. I knew it. Social services had me tested. More than once. Because, apparently, unstable children are the ones who continually run away from their families. But, somehow, I was never labelled as a loon. Just damaged.

So what the hell happened? I didn't think I was lonely enough to justify creating imaginary boys. After all the "daddies" I'd had, I knew I would never need a guy to make me happy. At least, I hoped that was true.

Maybe he just left. But no, the bell would have rung had he used the door. And he'd been there when I mentioned him to Wendy, but she still couldn't see him.

I shrugged, dunking my head under the water. It didn't really matter. After a good night's rest, I should have my head back in ship-shape. After all, I figured mildly, it hadn't been the first time I'd seen things that nobody else could. And, quite frankly, I didn't mind it that way. Maybe the world was just different to me than it was to others. And that was ok by me. The world deserved a few more good things, even if they were imaginary.

By the time I unplugged the tub, throwing my hair up into a towel, my fingers were prunes and my brain was mush. Maybe it was because of exhaustion, or maybe because the hot water had melted it down a bit. Whatever had happened, I was ready for my PJ's and a cup of tea.

After throwing on some plaid pants and my MusiCamp Alberta T-shirt, I brushed my teeth, padded silently up the stairs, and retreated to my room. My hands traced the little scribbles scrolling over my shoulder, written in haste by my friends and supervisors, and my mind wandered idly to my two-week experience at band camp. It was the most at home I'd felt since Mom and Dad died. Like-minded music people, who all felt like they were misfits. They all thought they were misunderstood. Maybe that's why I understood them so well. I mean, I didn't have a home — the current one at the time, family number 13, sent me off. I knew it was sort of a "test period" — you know, to decide whether they enjoyed life better without me. Which, of course, they didn't. But I did. When I got home, I didn't bother unpacking. I just hopped on the C-train to downtown Calgary.

I flopped back on my bed, about to pull my phone out and whip off a text to my friend Emma, who lived up in High River and was a fellow potential flautist. But my thumbs danced idly over the keypad, and it suddenly hit me that there was nothing to talk about. What was I going to say? Hey, Emma, guess what? My new dad is an abusive douchebag, not only to me, but to my new little brother, too! I love him to pieces, but I hate Jason's guts, so I'm kind of trapped. But I'm doing great, aside from the fact that I saw a boy that apparently doesn't exist at work today! How are you doing?

I didn't even have my flute anymore. I hadn't had a lesson in God knows when.

My phone clicked itself off, deciding that I'd spent enough time attempting to socialize. Tossing it over my shoulder, I curled over onto my side to look out my window, but the orangey glow from the streetlamp was smothered by hoarfrost. It was quite pretty, actually, with the light dancing through the delicate fern latticework that glazed over the glass.

I plaited my hair quickly, and pulled back my covers so all I had to do was jump in and sleep - which, tonight, wouldn't be much of an issue. Yanking some socks over my blueing toes, I thought rather miserably of how I never seemed to beat the cold. I pressed the door open gently, tiptoeing kind of ungracefully across the hardwood hall to Emmett's room.

I had to smother a giggle as I shut the door. The poor kid had flopped over, mid-Minecraft, sprawled on the floor. A zombie was enjoying a fresh meal - Emmett's avatar stood helpless, red flashing continually across the screen, as the boy manning him zonked. For once, his breathing was deep. Funny, how dreamless sleep could do that. Take away your fears, your memories, your consciousness. You didn't even have to worry about caring about whether people saw you drooling or not, because you were dead to them anyways.

Huh, I thought. Maybe that's why I love it so much.

I flicked the lights off, saved his game (I of all people understood the frustration of progress lost because some ignorant soul turned the it off before you saved), and made sure the light of his Xbox glowed a steady amber.

"Hey, dude." I poked him gently, rousing a grumble from him. "Let's get you tucked in, ok?"

He nodded, but screwed his eyes shut harder, as if it would magically put him back under. I hoisted him up onto his feet, leading him blindly toward his bed. I hope to God his wife is patient enough for this kind of thing, I mused, yanking back the covers just as the pooped little guy fell into them. A heavy sigh was released into his pillow.

Eh, I didn't worry too much about him. His adorableness would attract the right girl someday. Then, maybe, I wouldn't have to be the most important girl in his life.

The thought was all terrifying and sad and oddly freeing.

"Night," I murmured gently, pulling up Buzz Lightyear's head to drape over his shoulder. Emmett mumbled something back, but I couldn't discern it, since the pillow absorbed the defining consonants. I just tugged on his earlobe and went back to my room.

Where I almost had a heart attack.

There was a silhouette just beyond the frost on my window. A lean one, with sharp angles for shoulders and the outline of a long weapon leaning against them. I didn't know what it was - a rifle? Or a baseball bat? - but I forced my breathing to continue as I dove for my lamp. With the shade ripped off, it was easy enough to swing. If I clipped his temple hard enough he'd conk out for sure.

I stood there, behind my bed, in my PJs, wielding a lamp, for a good five minutes. My heart was beating so loudly and rapidly, I didn't realize that he wasn't trying to bust in until a voice floated through the glass gently. The noises I heard against the glass weren't harsh attempts to smash it, but gentle knocks. Like knuckles rapping softly against ice.

My lamp still aloft, I reached forward and unlatched the bottom of the window. If this guy was a raging lunatic, he would've busted in by now. I would've been dead on the ground, in a pool of my own blood. So this guy obviously had other reasons for coming.

I mean, he was polite enough to knock. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Still, I kept my deadly lamp stand pointed directly toward the glass as I backed away.

The pane swung open slowly, and pale fingers wrapped gently around the chipping wood. My eyes widened a bit as frost thickened around the hand, sweeping from the outside of the pane to the inside. As it crackled, expanding gently in swirling ferns, a head poked into my chilling room. White hair fell into his wintry eyes, and a smirk tugged one side of his mouth upwards.

It was the boy. It was him.

"I knew I wasn't crazy," I murmured, a fleeting smile flashing across my face. I had to admit, I was beginning to doubt myself. My breath came out in little puffs, rising and dissipating.

"Says the girl wielding a lamp." His eyes glanced at my socked feet. "With inside-out socks."

"They happen to be more comfortable that way," I said matter-of-factly. "Close the window, would ya? It's freezing."

His smug smile expanded over to the other side of his mouth. I got the strange feeling he was hiding something. I didn't like it.

"Not until you drop it." He stared me down, sliding his butt onto the sill so his feet still dangled outside.

I snorted. "No."

"Drop it," he commanded slowly, pointing a finger down like he was ordering a dog to sit.

"No!" I swung it back over my shoulder, sending the cord flying around my elbow, and he flinched back. I glared smugly at him. "Get out, if you don't want a clobbering."

"With a lamp."

"Yes." I narrowed my eyes at him. "This lamp is just as capable of manslaughter as any other blunt weapon."

"Aren't you a bundle of joy." He shook his head, snorting as he looked back outside. I noticed that the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck curled upwards, like he'd spent too much time looking upwards at the moon.

"Seriously. Get out." I edged closer to the window.

"What's your problem?" he asked indignantly. His hands splayed upwards in surrender. "I'm not about to murder you in cold blood."

"Thanks to you, my blood's already cold. One step down, one to go."

"Does it look like I have a motive?"

"You have a weapon, which is close enough for me."

"What, this?" He pushed the outline from the frigid air outside to the frigid air inside. It was his staff. The G-shaped crook at the top pointed upwards, like it could hook itself into the fleshy part of my jaw. Where his hands touched it, it glowed a faint blue. Like his hands were colder than the winter outside.

I glared at him stubbornly. "Yes, that!"

"It's about as harmful as your lamp, snowflake."

"Don't. Call me that. No affectionate nicknames. You don't even know me!" Who did this guy think he was?

"Well, you obviously know who I am."

My eyebrows screwed themselves together. "Obviously," I repeated.

"Yeah, obviously." He rolled his eyes, swinging his legs over the sill swiftly, flicking his staff over his shoulder. "Let me in, would you?"

"No. God. You think I don't know what you're doing?"

He frowned slightly. "Um."

"You're a teenage boy." I rolled my eyes. "You saw me at work, thought I was cute and followed me home in the hopes that you'd get lucky. You even climbed my roof." At his blank stare, I pressed on. "You young males. You all neglect the usage of your brains in favour of the usage of the thing in your pants."

That shut him up, surprisingly. No flirtatious comebacks. He even had the decency to blush, pink blooming into red across his cheekbones. "Um," he repeated intelligently, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes wandered anywhere but toward me, avoiding my pointed stare.

It was my turn to blink at him. I lowered my lamp to gesture wildly to him. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I implored loudly. "How can that be embarrassing to you? Have you never joked about anything like that before?"

He looked at me for a while with sheepish eyes. Man, those eyes could change in an instant. One moment, stinging silver, cold and snarky, and then melting from embarrassment into what I could only call ice-blue.

Finally, he held out a hand. "The name's Jack Frost," he said, attempting a small grin.

I rubbed my forehead. "Very funny. You're hilarious."

"Shake my hand!" He shook it midair, splaying it pressingly. "Decide for yourself!"

I eyed him warily, adjusting my grip on the rod of steel. He reminded me a bit of Peter Pan. Childish. Hanging on a windowsill. Offering a hand into a world of the immature. Into the naive.

Too late for that.

I sighed, defeated. Tucking the lamp under my armpit so that the bulb stuck out toward him, I clasped his hand in mine.

I honestly shouldn't've been surprised at the shock of cold that his fingers were. I'd always thought my extremities were clammy - what's the phrase? Cold hands, warm heart? - but his were, literally, like ice. Cold, hard ice.

Our joined hands bobbed in midair gently, until I pulled back, crossing my arms. I stepped back, appraising him with narrowed eyes."Okay, fine. You've been out in the cold for a while. Maybe you should wear some socks." I eyed his bare feet, dangling a foot from the floor.

"You don't believe me?" There was laughter in his voice. "Challenge accepted."

Before I could protest, he knocked the butt end of his staff onto the ground, sending a skiff of ice spreading across the waxed hardwood. I hardly even noticed his snarky grin. I was too busy trying to pull my socks free of the frozen water that had fuzed to their fibres.

"Ok, ok, I give," I said quickly. A giggle cut the sentence into a few chunks. "Alright, Frosty. I give."

"So you can call me Frosty, but I can't call you snowflake." Jack dropped to the floor, lifting his staff so the ice retreated.

I set the lamp down, watching it wobble on its base. "You are frosty."

"What, and you're not a snowflake?"

I shrugged. "Delicacy is not my strong point."

A crystalline cold speck landed gently on my nose, after floating in circles around me. "Ok. Fair enough," he said, his eyes drifting to the shadeless lamp. They flitted back up to me. The smidgeon of embarrassment I saw in them before was gone, like the snowflake that had just vaporized on my nose. "What can I call you, then?"

"My name's Willow."

"Like the tree?"

"Yeah, like the tree."

"Huh. And, if you don't mind me asking," he raised a thin eyebrow, "how old are you?"

I didn't detect an ounce of creepiness. Just transparency. "I'm sixteen."

He nodded, chewing on his lip. "Huh."

"What?"

"It's just…" he shrugged, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. The staff pierced the loop that his arm made. "Not a lot of kids your age see me."

"My age? What about you? You can't be that much older than me."

He opened his mouth, taking a breath, but a small voice interrupted his.

"Willow? Who are you talking to?"

I swivelled my head around, causing my braid to flop over my shoulder. My smile was automatic.

"Ah… a new… friend of mine." I held out my hand. "What are you doing up, Emmett?"

"I heard you talking, and there was a man's voice." I heard the worry in his voice. Like he was scared that he couldn't save me. But I crouched down and swept the hair off of his forehead. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of Jack Frost. The strange boy was slowly stepping forward.

"Not who you expected, huh?" I murmured gently.

With a shy headshake, I felt his hand clasp onto mine. "Did he hurt you?"

My heart twinged at the fierceness in his tone. I shook my head gently.

"My name's Jack Frost." I almost jumped at the cold breath on my shoulder. "Hey, you're Emmett." He jumped enthusiastically on the balls of his feet, like he was a kid himself. "I've seen you make some wicked snowballs at school, dude!"

"Jack Frost?" Emmett's jaw dropped, and his widened eyes turned to me. Wonder replaced the anxiety that had made his shoulders droop a second ago. "You know Jack Frost?"

I had to giggle at his childish exaggeration. Jack replied for me: "Actually, she threatened me with a lamp only a few minutes ago," he admitted, a wicked smile flicking my way.

"She could kick your butt any day," Emmett said, crossing his arms. My shocked gaze met his stubborn one, but Jack laughed at the little guy's quick defence. "I have no doubt."

My smile was half-hearted. "You have no idea."

Jack's smile turned to my little brother. "So, Emmett. You and I have to have ourselves a little snowball fight." One of Jack's eyelids dropped in a wink. "I think a snow day is in my agenda for tomorrow. We could drag your sister along," he said with a tricky smile in my direction.

"Dude! That would be so cool!" Emmett exclaimed, jumping up and down so his bare feet slapped against the floor.

"I hate to be Debbie Downer, you guys," I said, looking back at Jack, "but it's the middle of Alberta. In November. It's gonna take a hell of a lot of snow to get the schools to shut down."

"You underestimate my capabilities," he replied, bouncing a bit before standing upright. He smiled — not a sharp one, but a genuine one, sparkling with excitement. "Albertans may be hardy, but no one can resist this charming bundle of snow." He gestured to himself, wiggling his eyebrows in a very cheesy manner.

Emmett giggled, and a reluctant grin spread along my mouth. "You'd better be getting into bed," I poked Emmett. "Recharge your batteries for the epic-est snowball fight of your life."

Jack stood and ruffled Emmett's hair. "See you tomorrow, bud?"

"Uh, yeah!"

"Cool." Jack smiled at me over Emmett's head, bright teeth and bright eyes upturned under bright hair. He pointed to me with his staff. "I'm not done talking to you, yet."

"Diddo." My eyebrows twitched, wondering vaguely what kind of hallucination this counted as. "Bye, Frosty."

With a blatant look shot over his shoulder, he hopped out the window. But I could still see snowy hairs floating in a gentle breeze behind the glass panes.

I quirked an eyebrow, but it relaxed at one look at Emmett. He rubbed his eyes, yawning blandly, and Snowfie, his little white bear, dangled by his paw at his side. "Willow, I'm still scared. I had a nightmare. Daddy…" he trailed off, flicking his eyes down.

"You wanting a bedtime story?" was all I could manage, but he nodded thankfully, if a bit blearily.

Once we were all tucked under my sheets, Snowfie nestled comfortably between me and Emmett, I took a deep breath.

"Once upon a time, there was a little boy." Emmett's breathing steadied, and his nose found my shoulder. I watched the hairs just beyond the window wiggle a bit, like Jack was snuggling into the bit of roof that jutted out of my window. Like he wasn't going anywhere. "Not just any little boy. This little boy had the power to fly. He could fly up and above anywhere, as fast as he wanted. Even faster than a rocket.

"His best friend, a girl named, uh, Wilma - " I tried not to giggle at the first name that popped into my head, but Emmett did, so I snorted a little, too, " - could make anything out of anything. I mean, you could give her a roll of toilet paper, and BANG! She'd hand you a working model of the human body. So the little boy asked her to make him an invisibility cape, so he could go flying without anyone ever seeing."

"Why would he do that?" Emmett whispered, half drugged by sleep.

"There were evil scientists, sending spies everywhere, hunting for people with powers, like him and Wilma. He knew the evil scientists would want to duplicate what he had, and that meant they would cut him up into little bits to put under a microscope, and he was scared that they would do the same to his family, or to Wilma. He didn't like putting people in danger." I hesitated, but continued with a soft voice. "Plus, he had a better chance of not getting hurt if he stayed under the cape. If he stayed invisible.

"But, one day, the little boy was flying a bit too close to the sun. The cape caught on fire, and he had to take it off in midair. Unfortunately for him, it was so hot that his clothes caught on fire, too, and he lost concentration on flying. He fell toward the earth."

When Emmett didn't gasp, I knew he was asleep. I knew I could have stopped there, but I wanted to finish. Closure was kind of a necessity for me, in stories, anyway. In real life, though, I'd found that there was no such thing as closure.

"But just before he crashed into the sea, arms caught him in midair, and rose him into the sky. He was cold. So cold, he put out the fire burning holes in the boy's clothes. Because he'd lost his cape, he was able to make a new friend. One like him. He found that it was nice, being seen." My voice stopped when I smiled a little.

Suddenly, harsh noises shot under the crack in my door. My head snapped up at the mumbling voice, cuss words barely distinct.

Jason.

When the door slammed open, after a few floor-rumbling thumps, a huge splinter of wood skittered along the floor. I was standing, crouched and ready with the lamp stand back in my hand. I'd pulled Emmett into a standing position against my bed, and I pressed my body between them. Jason's stupid face, eyes as dark as Emmett's, leered in the doorway, his stupid yellow teeth exposed in a stupid, disgusting sneer. I could tell he was undressing me with his stupid eyes, so stupidly the same as his son's, roaming up and down my body. He was bigger than me by about a foot, and was about four times as thick. Not that he was fat, but he was stupidly built so he could drink and drink all day and still be ripped.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise as a complete sentence blasted across the room. "The fuck are you talking to?" He screamed so loudly, I could smell the alcohol on his breath, even from several feet away. I could usually tell what he'd been drinking, based on the pungency of his bellowed words, but tonight I was too busy trying to calm my breathing. I didn't want Emmett to panic, although I could feel his chest push against the small of my back rapidly.

"No one," I answered coolly. "Just Emmett. We're having a bedtime story." I mentally kicked myself for being so loud. Evening was always the time Jason was up and about, and not collapsed somewhere on the floor in his room. This was always the time we had to stay most silent.

Then my heart collided with my stomach — he must've heard me and Jack.

I realized it just as he said it: "The fuck you were!" He staggered forward, and I pressed Emmett harder into my mattress. "If you're hiding a fucking boy in here, you bitch, I swear I will fuck you up so bad you won't remember your own name -"

"Does it look like I'm hiding a guy in here?" I couldn't keep a guy within a twenty-foot radius of me for three seconds, I thought mildly. A normal one, anyway. I rode on the hope that adults couldn't see Jack, or maybe that he left, but I didn't dare look around.

"You ssssmell like cum," he slurred. "Don't you dare lie to me, fucking hoe."

"You bastard," I spat, shaking my head slowly. "Your seven-year-old son is right here!" As I said it, I felt Emmett's nose poke into my back, like he could melt into me. I wished he could. Maybe then we could be braver, together.

"Not for long," Jason threatened. The flick of a pocketknife cut through the fear, threatening to crush both me and Emmett. "You both are fucking annoying. I'll deal with him after you, little hoe. Since you seem horny —"

He stumbled into the room, like some sort of human monster, silhouetted by the light of the hallway. His shadow slunk across the floor, the outline of his hands sliding up my legs. His real hands reached for me, but I clumped him against the wrist before he touched me. I swung it hard, as hard as I knew he'd swing his fists at Emmett. The crack was sickening, and he screeched as he fell backward. He breathed heavily against the wall, hatred searing in his stupidly perverted eyes. Blood bubbled from a shallow cut, but I knew I'd done more damage than it looked.

I wasn't done yet, though.

This lamp is just as capable of manslaughter as any other blunt weapon.

As I ran for him, I screamed, but I didn't dare form words. They'd all be unthinkably scary to Emmett. Even without them, he flinched back, like he sensed the fear poking out from the shallow bravery I donned. I wanted to scream so much more, all of the anger that had built up in me since the day I'd been dropped off here, but I knew how much it would terrify Emmett. I knew that it would make him cower even more than Jason did. That's how it always worked. The ones you cared about were infinitely more scary than the ones you hated.

Jason's stupid eyes - Emmett's eyes, twisted and evil - darkened as I stood over him, and before his stupid mouth could open again, I brought down the lamp on his head - the crown of it, where I knew it would hurt the most. The sound and the shudders sent up my arms felt so good, it made me do it again. And again. With each clump, his body sunk lower against the wall, and I tried to not think about the blood pooling onto the floor. He deserves it, a snide voice echoed in my head.

But it wasn't my voice. It was a man's voice, slick and soothing, with a hint of a British lilt.

In mid-swing, I dropped the lamp, letting it clatter against the floor, and stood in horror, staring at the mess I'd made. This lamp is just as capable of manslaughter as any other blunt weapon.

His chest wasn't moving. It was only when I lifted my hands to my mouth that I realized that they were slimy with his blood.

I literally had blood on my hands. Literally and figuratively.

I'd killed him.

Emmett's little hands found me, encircling around my waist. I swiped my own on my shirt, then buried them in his hair.

"Oh my God," I choked. "Oh my God." The back of my hand pressed against my mouth. His little body quivered with sobs. "I'm so sorry, Emmett." I crouched, crushing him into a hug. "I'm so sorry."

"It was just like my bad dream." He sniffled. "He was gonna hurt us." The small voice, his clear bright voice, broke the heaviness of the room.

His voice.

It cracked, it was so burdensome. It wasn't the lightness that had always lifted my mood.

I'd taken his innocence away.

"I would never let that happen." I pulled back, cupping his chin in my hand, offering him a smile, even though it was as fake as the hope I was imprinting onto him. "I'm your butt-kicking sister, right?"

More like head-smashing sister, I thought, holding back a revolted gag.

He nodded, smiling back. I knew how sick it was, to be smiling amongst all the blood, over a corpse, but it seemed better than crying over a body I wasn't sorry was dead.

"We're getting out of here." I stood, going over to my closet and grabbing my duffel bag. The one that had been everywhere with me. The one I refused to unpack. "Go and get your clothes on."

"But what about Mom?"

I yanked my PJ pants off, despite the presence of Jason's body and Emmett's little eyes, and jumped into a pair of jeans. I wanted to tell him that his mom didn't deserve his loyalty, after exposing him to this kind of slime. I wanted to tell him that she was as bad as Jason was, deluding herself into thinking that what she had was normal. That it was love. I thought of all the times she'd ruffled his hair, not responding to his pleas to look at something he'd done, or to sit down and read with him, but all he'd ever been to her — all he'd ever be — was an object. Never a precious someone to care for, or to help imagine crazy things.

Instead of smoothing everything over, which my head told me to do, I did what my heart told me and looked him square in the face. "She's been on her own since she married him, buddy."

At my sad tone, he twisted his features into a brave face. He nodded fiercely. Like the little tiger I knew he was.

I checked the clock on my bedside table. "T minus fifteen minutes, Emmett. Go and get dressed, and then I'll help you pack."

"Where are we going?" Emmett's little voice hardened.

I pulled a hoodie over my braid. "I don't know. But I'll figure it out."

I always do.