What's Left of Me by Kat Zhang Page A

body and caged in his arms and, somehow, the former was the real prison.
    “ Run, ” he whispered into our ear.
    Then he let go and walked toward the car, his hands in his pockets, his movements unhurried. We stared after him.
    “Well,” the button-down man said. He gave us a smile, a threat wrapped in a promise. Tied with a bow. “Are you Addie, then?”
    Addie swallowed.
     I said.
    “Yeah,” Addie said. “That’s me.”
    “Nice to meet you, Addie,” said the button-down man. He nodded at us, then turned and walked off. His shoes left muddy footprints all the way to his car. Ryan looked at us one last time before opening the passenger-side door and ducking inside.
    We watched them drive away.
    Run . The word reverberated inside us.
    I will always wonder what might have happened if we’d listened.

Eleven
     
    H e came for us that same night.
    Mom had just changed into her waitressing uniform after sending Lyle to his last dialysis session of the week. A coworker had begged her to take over her shift at the restaurant, and after Lyle told her a million times he’d be fine alone at the clinic for an hour or so—a nurse would be within calling distance the entire time—she’d bitten her lip and agreed. Dad was heading in the opposite direction. He’d come home from work a little early so he could drive to the city and sit with Lyle for the remainder of his session.
    Addie and I sat at the table, about to eat dinner. The only ones not in motion.
    The doorbell rang just as we took our first bite. The fork froze in our mouth, tines hard and metallic against our tongue.
    Mom frowned, caught in the middle of putting up her hair. “Who could that be?”
    “It’s probably someone selling something,” Addie said slowly. “They’ll go away if you ignore them.”
    But the bell rang again, followed by a bout of knocking. Each blow seemed to shake the pictures on the walls, the figurines on the mantelpiece.
    “I’ll get it,” Dad said.
    “No!” Addie said. He jumped and turned to us.
    “Something wrong?”
    “No,” Addie said. Our fingers tightened around our fork. “Just—it’s just . . .”
    The bell interrupted her. Dad started toward the door, frowning. “Whoever it is, they aren’t very patient.”
    Mom hummed as she twisted her hair into a bun, using the back of a pan as a makeshift mirror. We could barely hear her over the blood roaring in our ears.
    “Hello,” said a familiar voice as the door opened. “I’m Daniel Conivent, here from Nornand Clinic.”
    There was the briefest of pauses.
    “Let’s go outside,” Dad said. His voice caught, just slightly—a tremble we noticed only because our nerves were strung so tight. “Please, let’s talk outside.”
    “A clinic,” Mom said. “Can’t imagine what they’d be selling.”
    Run echoed Ryan’s voice in our head. Run, he’d pleaded, but we hadn’t listened. Where would we have gone?
    Now it was too late.
    There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. We sat frozen in our chair, staring at our peas and carrots. Our fingers curled around the edge of our seat.
    “Addie?”
    Our head jerked up, our fork clattering onto the table. Mom frowned. “You’re pale, Addie. What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing,” Addie said. “I, um, I—”
    The door opened again. Our eyes flew to the hallway.
     I said.
    Air struggled into our lungs. Addie gripped the chair so tightly our arms shook.
    Dad came into view first. His eyes kept flitting everywhere but our face, his hands hanging limply at his sides. Behind him came a man in a stiff-collared shirt.
     I whispered fiercely.
    But we both knew it wasn’t true. Dad was a tall man. We’d never seen him look so small and helpless.
    “Addie,” Dad said. “Mr. Conivent says he met you today at school?”
    “You remember me, don’t you, Addie?” the