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urging, I clutched to his neck and twisted my legs above his belly bag. His Cleave secured me to him with a belt, doused us both with water, and then we reversed the path I’d just taken, passing several men guiding mules packed with newly procured supplies for our community.
    By the time we’d descended to our cave, the sun looked like a giant orange resting upon the water, the sparse clouds glowing crimson. The heat had subsided slightly making the air more breathable. Poor Doc was panting from the extra weight of his supplies and me. My daddy broke down with tears of relief to see the two of us. Mom looked so pale and weak that I wondered if she was dead. But within moments she screamed bloody murder as she tried to eject the baby with a long contraction.
    “She’s been pushing for an hour, but something’s wrong. The baby’s not coming,” my dad had said. Doc put me down and dug into his bag. My dad attempted to shield me from seeing the events of the next hour as the doctor used tools to remove the baby and try to stop my mom’s bleeding. Doc tied the baby’s cord, cut her from my mom, and then swaddled her in an old rag from his bag. He handed me the crying, writhing little girl, so my dad could help him save my mom. Ten tiny fingers and toes, a black patch of hair and creamy skin, and facial expressions that shifted continually finally helped distract me.
    Thanks to the Gads, my mom lived for eight months following Leila’s birth. Long enough to nurse the life out of her, saving her baby girl, a gift she’d willingly given. Doc didn’t think she’d make it through that night, so the extra time was a blessing. She’d been too weak to leave the cave, so we’d made do in space smaller than my current bedroom. My dad filled the time with stories of a fantastical place of plentiful food, beautiful trees and flowers, luxurious homes, and daylight play without being scorched or burned. On her deathbed my mom had my dad promise to deliver us safely to the place of his stories and never let us return.  

    My dad honored half that promise, but by forcing my participation in his plans of revenge, we’re both about to dishonor the other half. As I remember my mom’s blazing eyes as she demanded this of my father, I shudder and whisper for her forgiveness. No, my sister will never understand the sacrifices, including the one I’ll be undertaking shortly to avenge my mother’s death. Leila remembers living in a ‘really hot place,’ but that’s the extent of it. She adapted quickly to life in San Diego, and our favorable circumstances here.  
    I have too much to do to deal with her crap, too much to prepare, but I wind my truck through the Ranch, at ease in the darkness of the hour.
    I wonder if I’m the only Carmel Valley High student who didn’t attend the Winter Formal. Bailey-branded losers like me don’t get dates. When we first moved to the area, I tried to fit in, to blend in more. But I don’t blend. I can’t stand to make attachments, to care about people who have no place in my future. So after the Bailey fiasco, I withdrew from the pack, hiding behind the protection of my hood and a skateboard, despite—or perhaps because of—the inherent negative stereotypes associated with skaters, and made peace with my solitude. Boarding’s as natural as walking to me, so the subterfuge worked its magic.
    I slow as I approach my destination and turn into the Goodington’s driveway. My brain catches sight of someone in my path, reacting before I can fully process, and I swerve out of the way and slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a eucalyptus tree. Shaking from the near hit, I yank my hood up over my head and get out of the car. My averted victim is none other than Kira Donovan, who appears sober, dateless, and is yelling at her cell phone. She looks like a freaking Disney princess with her hair up in curly-qs and body perfectly shaped in a long green dress.
    “Trying to get yourself killed? You about