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understand.
    â€œYou okay?” he asked, afraid to speak any louder.
    Misty gave him a weak nod and shuffled past his door. There was a familiar wobble to her gait as she ducked into her room. Her unbalanced stagger guaranteed fresh wounds on top of crosshatched scars. Michael peeked into the hall, shot a glance in each direction, and scrambled to his feet. He closed the door behind him as quietly as he could before tiptoeing into his sister’s room.
    Although she looked up at him from her perch on the bed, Misty Dawn didn’t say anything for a long while. She just stared at him, roughly wiping at her flushed cheeks with the palms of her hands. Michael pressed his back to the wall and slid down its length to the floor. When it came to Rebel, Misty had a knack for speaking out of turn; but when it was time to speak to Michael, she considered her words carefully. It was as though she had a limited supply, but Michael didn’t mind. He liked to think that her hesitation was proof that she cared. The things Misty said to Reb were mostly barbs, while everything she directed toward Michael was laced with emotion. It was meaningful.
    â€œWade’s gettin’ tired,” she said after a drawn-out silence. “I don’t know how much more of Ray he’s gonna take. Ray’s pushin’ on purpose.” She didn’t call Rebel by his chosen nickname as an act of defiance, a small protest against her big ­brother’s cruelty. But no matter how paltry the uprising, Misty was more of a renegade than Michael would ever be.
    Michael wasn’t sure how to reply. It seemed to him that Rebel had been pushing Wade for as long as Michael had known him. There was an unspoken resentment between Reb and Wade, as though Wade had done something black and unforgivable. Michael had made the mistake of asking why Reb hated his father only once, questioning why he called Wade by his first name rather than “Dad.” His inquiry was answered with a black eye and a kick to the ribs. Michael hadn’t taken the attack personally. Some hurts were just too painful to talk about.
    Misty coiled her arms around her knees, hugging them to her chest. “Why do you do it?” she asked. He looked up at her, shook his head to say he didn’t understand the question. “Ray,” she said. “Why do you do what he says?”
    Michael frowned. It was something he didn’t like to talk about out loud. It made him anxious. Afraid.
    â€œReb’s smart,” he murmured after a beat. “Smarter than Wade thinks, at least. He knows you can’t hit up a place twice unless you’re wearin’ a mask, and he knows how fast to drive if the cops are on your tail. Reb knows a lot.” He lifted his shoulders as if to tell her it was the best response he could offer.
    â€œExcept his name ain’t Reb,” Misty reminded him. “And he ain’t as smart as he thinks. What’re you gonna do if, tomorrow, Wade tells you to do one thing and Ray tells you to do somethin’ else? Who you gonna listen to?”
    Michael was compelled to listen to Rebel. He was like one of those dogs trained to drool at the sound of a bell. But he also knew that Wade was what the TV called “the man of the house”; he was supposed to be in charge. The TV didn’t much talk about “the woman of the house,” which Michael thought was kind of funny. If anyone had power at the Morrows’ place, it wasn’t Reb or Wade—it was Momma.
    â€œI don’t know,” Michael finally said. “I guess Reb?”
    Misty was shaking her head, and he tensed at her response.
    â€œWade?” he asked, backpedaling. “Hell, I don’t know, Miss. I just do what I’m told, you know? I do whatever I think will protect you more.”
    Misty smiled softly at that. “My knight in shinin’ armor,” she said. “All you need is a fast white