Watched by C. J. Lyons

open my eyes a slit. He doesn’t go through the pockets. All he does is hang it on the back of the desk chair, gently, carefully, his hand lingering on the leather collar.
    He sits down beside me in the dark. A strong smell of chlorine slides beneath the blankets to gag me. With it, the stench of petroleum. And I know he is the arsonist.
    I hate it. I hate him. I blow my breath out in a fake snore as he lays his hand on my head, his fingers combing through my hair. Revulsion and disgust at his touch threaten to shatter my control.
    He sits there for a long moment, sighs my name. Twists it into a sound so sad and filled with regret, it feels like I’m responsible for everything wrong in the world.
    Then he leaves. I’m alone in the dark, face buried in my pillow, smothering my anger and fear.
    Until I can find a way to move Mom and Janey out of here to someplace safe from both King and my uncle, his secrets are my secrets.
    Punching him, pummeling him, pounding him into the ground would be so much easier and feel so much better. I fantasize about it, but I can never do it. I have to put my family first.
    My uncle’s right about one thing: I’m all they have.
    â€¢ • •
    I’m pretty much awake the whole night. When I do drift off, it’s only a few minutes before dreams of facing King turn into nightmares of his retaliation. Those morph into dreams of fire, drowning in fire, burning, burning…and my uncle outside, shaking his head in regret, walking away.
    Not exactly eager to face anyone, I get up early, grab my shower, shove what little cash I have into my pockets, wash a bagel and peanut butter down with a glass of milk. Back in my room, I stare at my desk. My dad’s jacket hangs from the chair where my uncle placed it last night. King’s phone is on the charger hidden below the desk and his laptop is still closed.
    The closed laptop frightens me. I should have gotten up and opened it last night after my uncle left my room. King will put up with occasionally being locked out of my life, but not for long. And I’m already on his shit list.
    Even though he gave me until Monday to make my decision, I know he’ll want to be able to reach me—I’d taken a huge risk liberating myself from the shackle of his phone last night when I fled to the trailer. My hand raises, almost against my will, stretches toward the desk. King has trained me well. Even the thought of disobeying him has my stomach churning acid, and bile scratching at my throat.
    My hand falls. On my dad’s jacket. Before I can think twice or lose my nerve, I grab it and race from the room. Two minutes later, I’m hunched over the steering wheel of my truck headed God only knows where. But I’m free. For now.
    The air smells crisp, like spring has decided to stay—always a risk here in central Pennsylvania where we often get Easter and Mother’s Day blizzards. I roll down the windows, the bracing chill clearing my mind. There will be a price to pay for this morning’s baby steps of rebellion. Was I ready to go all the way and trust Miranda?
    I drive my truck toward school but keep going past it until I get to a road leading up into the woods. It’s single lane, rutted, used by hunters and hikers to get up to the ridge where the State Game Lands start. The trees—oak and maple with tiny red-green smudges where they’ll soon have leaves, tall hemlock, and pine—keep me in shadow until I emerge at the parking area on top. I get out of the truck and climb onto the hood, the engine ticking as it cools beneath me.
    A large bird—a hawk or turkey vulture or eagle, it’s too far away to tell—glides across the blue sky over the valley. There are no clouds, not even those fuzzy ones Janey always tries to blow away like they’re dandelion puffs.
    Just me and the sun. I can’t remember the last time I was free of King like this. Filling my lungs with the