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let me talk to your mother about this."
    Dean moved closer to face the man his features stiff with rage. "You stay away from my mother," he warned. "You hear me? Stay away from her. If it's like you said—and I'm not admitting nothing—even if my stepfather is doing what you think he's doing, what do you think it's like for her? Do you think she'd be safe with me gone?"
    It took a while, but the truth had finally dawned on Whitney. She didn't take in the rest of what was being said, because the blood was pounding too loudly in her ears.
    Jumping out from beyond her hiding place, she started to run. She was running from words she didn't want to hear. She was running from reality.
    She hadn't gone more than half a block when arms came around her from behind, holding her twisting, struggling body tight.
    "Whit—Whit— For pete's sake, would you stop kicking me?"
    She looked up at Dean, but after a moment she began to struggle again. "Let me go!" she ordered hoarsely.
    "Why? What are you doing here? Where are you going in such an all-fired hurry?"
    She gulped air into her burning lungs, and without looking at him, she said in a tight whisper, "Uncle Ames has guns. There's a room in Harcourt House that has guns everywhere, on the walls and in cabinets. I'm going to get one, and I'm going to shoot him."
    Dean was quick. He always knew what she was thinking, sometimes even before she knew. He pulled her down to sit on the curb, his arm around her holding her still.
    "I wish you hadn't heard any of that," he said, and he sounded angry again.
    "Well, I did. You shouldn't have lied to me, but I don't care about that now. Alls I care about is—"
    "Getting a gun to shoot him," he said with a strange combination of sorrow and amusement. "You're not going to shoot anyone. And if I catch you anywhere near your uncle's guns, I'll beat your butt. You hear me?"
    She sagged. "Dean—" She broke off, and dropping her head to her knees, she began to cry, letting the outrage and frustration and anguish come out in her tears.
    "Come on, don't do that, Whit," he said, his voice gruff.
    She shook her head. "You should have told me. I can't stand it. I just can't stand it. You said you were fighting with other boys and I didn't like it because your poor face got hurt, and I knew you were a better fighter than anyone else and they probably looked a lot worse than you did. But it wasn't boys. It was your own father that—"
    "Stepfather," he corrected sharply.
    "Your stepfather was doing it," she amended. "And he's an adult. He's not supposed to be hurting a kid. They're just not supposed to do that."
    He shrugged away her childish logic. "That's life. Stuff happens all the time, even when it's not supposed to. But I want you to stop worrying about it. A coupla times a month he gets fried to the tonsils and he lays into me. Mostly I stay out of his way, but sometimes he catches me. It's no big deal. He's usually too drunk to do much damage." He grinned. "The booze messes up his balance. Come on now. Straighten up your face and tell me why you came to see me."
    She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Nothing important. Who was that man you were talking to?"
    "My English teacher: He's all right, but he doesn't know much about living in Trash Town."
    "I wish you didn't, either," she said fervently. "I wish you could come and live with me in Sweet House. Mother never hits."
    He threw back his head and laughed. "I can just see your mother if you brought me home. 'Whitney, dahling, quick, call the bug man. We've been invaded. And for heaven's sake, don't touch him.' "
    She started to punch him, then she remembered his stepfather and leaned her head against him instead. "Promise me you'll be more careful. Promise me you'll stay out of his way from now on."
    He had made the promise, a hand over his heart in a mock-solemn vow, but periodically she would see bruises on his face again. After that first time he wouldn't let her talk about it again. But