The Benders by Katie French Page B

tuggin’ both pigtails. She tucks the end of one in her mouth and watches me.
    “I’ll comply if meathead gets outta my face.” I glare at Michael.
    Michael’s face burns red and nostrils flare. “You don’t give orders—”
    “It’s fine. It’s just peachy.” Betsy sings, takin’ my hand. I stagger up, fightin’ off the light-headedness, and follow her to the door.
    We walk down the same dim corridor my mother brought me in. We pass the operating room on the way out and I realize that, other than these two rooms, there’s nothing else in this building. Did Nessa set up this place just for me? It’s an imposin’ thought, one I don’t get to ponder long since Betsy leads me at a fast clip out the door and into the night air.
    Twilight hunkers over the compound. The shrill night insects sing from cracks and crevices of abandoned buildings around us. The grounds are nearly empty, no sound of troops or Jeeps trundlin’ by. Down the street men’s voices talk in low, hushed tones. Very few electric lights burn along the sidewalks, so the paths are pretty dark, but this doesn’t seem to deter Betsy. She trundles us down the steps and onto the sidewalk.
    I could bolt right now, I think, glancin’ around the quiet compound. There’s a Jeep parked about thirty yards away. Then Michael’s boot heels click on the pavement behind us. I could beat him to the Jeep, but he’s got a gun and even if I did make it, there’s Ethan to worry about. When I see where he is, then I can formulate a plan.
    A gusting wind at my backside reminds me that I’m clad in a thin hospital gown, socks, and what Mother Nature gave me. “Any way you could get me some clothes?” I ask Betsy as she pulls me along.
    “He’ll be excited to see you,” she says, as if she didn’t hear me. “He’s been asking about you over and over.”
    “Who? Ethan? You’ve been with him?” A Jeep drives past us, its driver givin’ us a watchman’s once-over. Michael offers a nod that says all’s well.
    You keep thinkin’ all’s well, I think in Michael’s direction. Get real comfortable with me.
    Panting, Betsy answers the question I forgot I asked. “I’ve been watching him since he got here. He was scrawny, but I’m going to fatten him up.” Her voice has gone syrupy like a woman talkin’ to a puppy. Does Betsy think Ethan’s a baby?
    “Where’s Nessa keepin’ him?” I ask, still scannin’ the buildings as we pass. A large brick three-story with no windows or doors sits on our left, one they didn’t care to fix up. Lots of good hidin’ potential there.
    “Miss Nessa let me keep him with us. It’s so nice to have a little one around the house again.” Betsy’s pace slows as her breathin’ becomes labored.
    We take a right this time and seem to be leavin’ the military buildings for a housing development. Rows of empty, dark houses—all identical with white garage doors and chipped yellow paint—stretch around curved driveways. Some still have intact windows and doors, but most have vacant eyes and gapin’ mouths, lettin’ in critters and sand and time.
    Soon’s I see the biggest house on the block with the light burning in the parlor window, I know where we’re headed. This house has been touched up and fitted with new doors and windows. The paint’s fresh and there’s even a wooden rocker on the front porch and a tabby cat curled in the seat.
    “Ethan’s in there?” I ask.
    Betsy nods with smilin’ eyes. “Come on.”
    We walk up the porch steps and the tabby eyes us from the rocker. Betsy opens the door with no hesitation and pushes in, a big grin on her sweaty face. Michael waits on the porch as I step in after her, eyes wide and heart pumping.
    I stand stock-still for a moment, a feeling of déjà vu sending ice water through my veins. The house is done up just like pa’s house in town. There’s his silver tea set and the baby grand with the chipped middle C key, his Victorian armchair, and the hat rack