disappears into thin air a few steps onto the tree-lined drive. I try to make out footprints or a shimmer in the muggy winter afternoon, anything to tell me when she crosses through the gates and into the big house, but it’s too far away.
It’s idyllic in that moment. Suspended in time.
And then it shatters, like a perfect, crystal vase smashing onto a tile floor.
A black-and-white police car screams up the drive, freezing me in place and chasing away the plantation’s peaceful afternoon. Another follows, then another, and another—so many that I lose count. They stir up dirt into a massive cloud, like a bunch of roadrunners whirling through a cartoon desert.
The dirt clogs my mouth, dries out my tongue. Snakes down my throat and into my lungs, choking off all the warnings that beg to be shouted. The realization that everything is about to change closes my throat the rest of the way.
Fear nips at my stomach, bites my heart. My friends are in that house. My family. Adults who may not love me but have spent sixteen-plus years caring for me. The Cavies, who do love me.
The only people in the world who will ever know what it’s like to be me.
My eyes are glued to the sight of strangers swarming the big house, black and thick like ants on a hummingbird feeder. The bricks of the only home I’ve ever had feel warm against my back. The dirt settles, then poofs up again under the feet of too many cops to count. Their uniforms are black and blue, with a few tan ones thrown in for good measure, and they all draw guns as they move toward the big house in a fanned-out formation.
None of them notice me, my mouth gaping in silent warning. There’s nothing I can do as they burst through the front doors. They’re going to find us.
Dread chills my skin, makes me tremble as I watch the police storm the house, as the faint strains of yelling and screams and protests surf the stagnant air toward Slave Street. But for all of the terror making it impossible for me to breathe, for all the desperate need to cling to the way things have always been, the dragon inside me celebrates.
He twitches his tail, grins a dragon grin, and thinks, Now, Gypsy, you and I might be able to fly. And even if we can’t, no one out there will think we’re lesser for it .
Chapter Two
Everything that happens over the next twenty-four hours globs together, like an anthill after the twins squeeze a whole bottle of honey onto it. My hospital room hosts a slow-motion parade of cops and doctors and suspiciously nice ladies called social workers. There are blankets and coffee and eyes.
All kinds of eyes.
Kind ones, worried ones, scared ones, curious ones. Mine, which have barely closed.
The television in the room plays a live feed, not just movies like the ones at Darley, and the news of our discovery and “rescue” has been on a continuous loop. When it’s verified that no one at Darley had legal custody of us, the local cops turn into FBI agents within a couple of hours, and are then joined by less identifiable government agents. Homeland Security, maybe, or CIA. They flop out their badges when they introduce themselves, asking a bunch of questions that slide together, the letters from one word jumbling with the next. It’s deafening.
I never noticed how quiet it is at Darley Hall. Never realized how lost I would feel without the other Cavies; even our connection has gone silent.
At first panic overwhelmed us and we all tried to crowd the shared, private, safe mental sphere we use to communicate. Our emotions and thoughts were too big, made the Clubhouse too crowded and unbearably loud until we shut the doors that connect us.
Now they sit in their hospital rooms and I tremble alone in mine. Listening. Trying not to cry. Needing my friends and wondering if all my wishes for a different life brought this fate down on the rest of them, who had been perfectly happy with the way things were. If my selfish jealousy would land us all in a
It’s idyllic in that moment. Suspended in time.
And then it shatters, like a perfect, crystal vase smashing onto a tile floor.
A black-and-white police car screams up the drive, freezing me in place and chasing away the plantation’s peaceful afternoon. Another follows, then another, and another—so many that I lose count. They stir up dirt into a massive cloud, like a bunch of roadrunners whirling through a cartoon desert.
The dirt clogs my mouth, dries out my tongue. Snakes down my throat and into my lungs, choking off all the warnings that beg to be shouted. The realization that everything is about to change closes my throat the rest of the way.
Fear nips at my stomach, bites my heart. My friends are in that house. My family. Adults who may not love me but have spent sixteen-plus years caring for me. The Cavies, who do love me.
The only people in the world who will ever know what it’s like to be me.
My eyes are glued to the sight of strangers swarming the big house, black and thick like ants on a hummingbird feeder. The bricks of the only home I’ve ever had feel warm against my back. The dirt settles, then poofs up again under the feet of too many cops to count. Their uniforms are black and blue, with a few tan ones thrown in for good measure, and they all draw guns as they move toward the big house in a fanned-out formation.
None of them notice me, my mouth gaping in silent warning. There’s nothing I can do as they burst through the front doors. They’re going to find us.
Dread chills my skin, makes me tremble as I watch the police storm the house, as the faint strains of yelling and screams and protests surf the stagnant air toward Slave Street. But for all of the terror making it impossible for me to breathe, for all the desperate need to cling to the way things have always been, the dragon inside me celebrates.
He twitches his tail, grins a dragon grin, and thinks, Now, Gypsy, you and I might be able to fly. And even if we can’t, no one out there will think we’re lesser for it .
Chapter Two
Everything that happens over the next twenty-four hours globs together, like an anthill after the twins squeeze a whole bottle of honey onto it. My hospital room hosts a slow-motion parade of cops and doctors and suspiciously nice ladies called social workers. There are blankets and coffee and eyes.
All kinds of eyes.
Kind ones, worried ones, scared ones, curious ones. Mine, which have barely closed.
The television in the room plays a live feed, not just movies like the ones at Darley, and the news of our discovery and “rescue” has been on a continuous loop. When it’s verified that no one at Darley had legal custody of us, the local cops turn into FBI agents within a couple of hours, and are then joined by less identifiable government agents. Homeland Security, maybe, or CIA. They flop out their badges when they introduce themselves, asking a bunch of questions that slide together, the letters from one word jumbling with the next. It’s deafening.
I never noticed how quiet it is at Darley Hall. Never realized how lost I would feel without the other Cavies; even our connection has gone silent.
At first panic overwhelmed us and we all tried to crowd the shared, private, safe mental sphere we use to communicate. Our emotions and thoughts were too big, made the Clubhouse too crowded and unbearably loud until we shut the doors that connect us.
Now they sit in their hospital rooms and I tremble alone in mine. Listening. Trying not to cry. Needing my friends and wondering if all my wishes for a different life brought this fate down on the rest of them, who had been perfectly happy with the way things were. If my selfish jealousy would land us all in a
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