Hit by Delilah S. Dawson Page A

dead chickens before they hatch. No point in worrying about the next-to-last kill when I’ve got six more assignments to get through alive in a world already filled with thugs and people hard up for cash.
    â€œSo how am I going to get Kelsey Mackey to open the door without a sexy gift basket?” I say half to myself, and Wyatt glances back at me. He’s got to notice that I’m avoiding talking about what just happened. But he can also see that I’m curled up on the cot, quietly shaking with an arm around my dead uncle’s dog.
    â€œJust hold an envelope,” he says. “People will open the door for anyone in a mail truck.”
    â€œGood point.”
    I uncurl myself and shrug on a huge, colorful sweater before pulling my envelope out from under the thin mattress. It’s unmarked—no name, no address, not so much as a wrinkle in the orangey-tan paper. I dump out the rest of the cards and pick up the one for Kelsey Mackey.The card looks so boring, so normal. But it’s just another death sentence, printed on fancy paper.
    The truck shudders and chugs at a stop sign, and Wyatt says, “So where to? You want to hit your next kill or grab some food or what?”
    Put that way, it sort of takes away my appetite. But if I don’t eat something soon, I’m going to get even worse shakes.
    â€œPull into a gas station,” I say.
    I dig around for my cash while he drives up the highway. Matty hops up on the bed and falls instantly asleep, and even though she’s getting rain splatter and mud all over my stuff, I let her. Being in the back of the truck makes me kind of queasy and carsick. My feet slide a little on the metal floor whenever he makes a turn, and every bump in the road jars my butt bones. I sit on the bed and try to relax among my throw pillows and stuffed turtles, but it’s hard. I’ve been in control for so long that I’m not even sure how to let someone else take the steering wheel.
    After my dad left, my mom didn’t do that thing where women get makeovers and start dating and aiming higher at work. I don’t remember her really having hobbies or friends or going out or leaving me with a babysitter she had to pay. She just had work and me. My mama never had any ambition; just put one foot in front of the other, hoping to stay in the same place. Naturally, she fell behind. By the time I was eight, I was pet sitting for cash and doing gardening for old ladies in return for cookies and crumpled dollar bills. WhenI was eleven, I started babysitting, and that’s when I really started being helpful. From the beginning of third grade, I got myself up in the morning, made my own breakfast and lunch, and walked my own self to the bus stop while my mom was already at work.
    I started at the pizza place when I was fourteen, when Jeremy and Roy promised they’d take care of me, and we’d mostly just sit around, flipping dough in the back room and cracking jokes. I was like a mascot, almost, and it felt good to pay for my own clothes and craft supplies and fill the car with gas, once I started driving and before my mom wrapped the old Tercel around a median when a big rig ran her off the road.
    My mom took care of me in the only way she knew how, with no help, no support, and no luck. When I think about the way she looked in the hospital after the accident, my throat closes up and my eyes burn. It was bad enough when she had insurance. She needs me now, more than ever. And I want to be done with this job as soon as possible so I can take care of her in the only way I know how.
    â€œGas station first, then next house,” I say more firmly.
    Wyatt just says, “Cool.”
    The tank of gas is practically full, so Wyatt pulls into a parking space and turns in his seat to stare at me, eyebrows up.
    â€œStay with Matty,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
    I come uncomfortably close to him as I squeeze between the seats on my