Chapter 2

Scotty said they had to follow the rules. He said everyone had to be treated equally, whether they were 80 years old or three years old.

Then what about Maelyn's grandfather? And what about her parents and her relatives? Why were they any different?

Were they the exception to his rules, or were they simply the people who deserved special treatment in Scotty's world?

I stared intently at that tent. A venomous fire lodged itself in my throat, burning fiercely all the way down until it seemed like every single organ inside me ached.

More than a decade of devotion—more than a decade of what I believed had been supporting each other through thick and thin—was all shattered to pieces in this single moment by the tender, warm scene in front of me.

He had settled her family so comfortably, yet he allowed my father to stand hunched over among broken concrete and twisted debris, holding my bleeding sister, humbly waiting for a kindness that would never come.

He wouldn't even spare them a single glance.

I spun around and practically sprinted back to the corner where Dad and Poppy were. I ran so fast that I almost tripped over a piece of rebar sticking out of the ground.

Dad, seeing the look on my face, scrambled to his feet in a panic.

"What's wrong, Kenzie? Did they refuse to give you water? It's okay, it's okay. I found some water, and Poppy just had some…"

He held out an old enamel mug containing half a cup of murky, yellowish water.

At that moment, every ounce of composure and sanity I'd been desperately holding onto came crumbling down.

Dad had no idea what was going on, though. He hurried after me, grabbed my arm, and reached into the faded inside pocket of his jacket to pull out a crumpled plastic bag.

Inside was half a piece of flatbread. The edges had already gone hard and cracked, and it was obvious it had been made before the earthquake struck. Dad had been keeping it close to his chest, where his body heat had kept it warm.

Lowering his voice, he cast a cautious, eager-to-please glance toward the main tent.

"Kenzie, take this to Scotty. I bet he's so busy that he doesn't even have time to eat. It's a little dry, but it'll fill him up."

Dad stuffed the plastic bag into my hand. His rough, calloused fingertips brushed against the back of my hand like sandpaper.

"Just tell him it's from home. No one will see it, so it won't break the rules."

He flashed me a smile. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened, and his clouded eyes filled with utmost earnestness.

I looked down at the half piece of bread, at Dad's dust-covered jacket with its frayed cuffs, and finally at Poppy lying on the ground, blood still seeping from the injury on her forehead.

The lump in my throat surged upward again, but I forced myself to swallow it back down.

"Dad, wait here."

Clutching the plastic bag tightly, I turned and, with heavy footsteps, walked toward the tent glowing with warm yellow light.

The tent flap was still half-open.

Standing outside, I could hear the clinking of utensils and the low hum of laughter and chatter.

Maelyn's syrupy-sweet voice drifted out. "Try this, Scotty. My mom saved some of this braised beef just for you."

Answering her was a familiar, deep voice, carrying a relaxed, cheerful tone I had never heard before.

"Mm, it's delicious. Your mom's an amazing cook."

I stood frozen in place. My fingers slowly tightened around the plastic bag, making it crinkle loudly.

Through the gap in the tent flap, I saw Scotty sitting at a folding table. He'd taken off his dust-covered camouflage jacket, leaving only a clean, dark T-shirt.

Maelyn sat next to him, scooping food onto his plate. Around the table were her grandfather, her parents, her aunt, and the little child Tina was entertaining.

Several insulated food containers filled with meat and vegetables were spread across the table, steam still rising from them. The thermos cup was placed right beside Maelyn's grandfather, with its lid removed, releasing a hint of sweet aroma into the air.

Scotty took a large bite with his fork. His cheeks bulged slightly, and the warm yellow light softened the lines of his face.

A gust of cold night air swept past me, making me shiver.

I looked down at myself. Dust covered every inch of me, mud was caked under my fingernails, and my tangled hair clung to my sweaty forehead.

Then I looked at the plastic bag in my hand and at the dry, cracked piece of flatbread.

There Scotty was, eating a hot meal with his college crush and her family. Meanwhile, my father was crouched in a dark corner, while my little sister lay on the cold ground with a bleeding head, unable to get even a drop of clean water.

A sharp, dense ache stabbed at my heart, as though a thousand tiny needles had pierced it at once.

I yanked the tent flap open and strode inside.

The entire tent fell silent instantly.