She flew alongside Fang, and he demonstrated the move for her. She watched him and imitated it. It worked great.
She flew in huge circles, practicing the move and flying closer to the hawks, who seemed to be tolerating her. As long as she didn’t think about Max or Angel, she would be okay.
That evening Nudge lay on her stomach, her wings flat out around her, and watched the parent hawks grooming their young. They were so gentle, so attentive. These fierce, strong birds were carefully smoothing their fledglings’ mottled white feathers, feeding them, helping them get out of the nest to practice flying.
A lump came to her throat. She sniffled.
“What?” said Fang.
“These birds,” said Nudge, wiping her eyes and feeling stupid. “Like, these dumb hawks have more of a mom than I ever had. The parents are taking care of the little ones. No one ever did that for me. Well, besides Max. But she’s not a mom.”
“Yeah. I get it.” Fang didn’t look at her. His voice almost sounded sad.
The sun set, and the hawks settled down in their nests. Finally, the raucous fledglings quieted. When it had been dark for an hour, Fang edged closer to Nudge and held out his left hand in a fist. Nudge looked up at him, then stacked her left fist on top of his. It was something the flock always did together before bedtime.
Except they hadn’t done it when they’d fallen asleep in that cabin last night. And now it was just the two of them.
Nudge tapped his fist with her right hand, and he tapped hers.
“Night,” she whispered, feeling as if everything she cared about had been ripped away from her. Silently, she curled up against the wall of the cave.
“Night, Nudge,” whispered Fang.
26
Oh, man. This was not the best day I’d ever had. My shoulder was still bleeding a bit, even though I’d been pressing on it for hours. Every time I jostled it, warm blood oozed through my fingers.
I hadn’t run into the gun-carrying clowns again, but I’d heard them off and on. I’d been working my way north in a big arc, trying to weave a confusing trail for whoever might be following me. Every time I heard them, I froze for endless minutes, trying to blend in with the brush.
Then, cramped and stiffening, I would painstakingly start again. In case they brought dogs, I’d splashed through streams at least four times, and let me tell you, trying to keep your balance on moss-covered rocks in icy water with a hurt shoulder is no picnic.
I’d felt around on my shoulder and wing, and as far as I could tell, the shot had just scooped out a trail of flesh and wing but hadn’t actually lodged inside. Whatever—my arm and wing felt useless and they hurt awfully.
It was getting late. Angel was somewhere hours away, being subjected to God knows what horror, wondering where I was. I pressed my lips together, trying not to cry. I couldn’t fly, couldn’t catch up to Fang and Nudge, who were probably furious by now. It wasn’t like I could call their cell phones or anything.
This situation totally sucked, and it was 100 percent my own stupid fault, which made it suck even worse.
Then, of course, it started pouring rain.
So now I was slogging my way through wet woods, wet brush, red clay mud, wiping water out of my eyes, getting more chilled and more miserable and more hungry and more insanely furious at myself.
I hadn’t heard the guys in a long time—they had probably gone home to get out of the rain.
A minute later I blinked and wiped my eyes. I squinted. There were lights ahead.
If it was a store or shed, I could wait till everyone left and then hole up for the night. Soon I was only ten yards away, hunching down in the darkness, peering through the wet trees. It was a house.
A figure passed a window, and my eyebrows raised. It was that girl, Ella. This must be her house.
I bit my lip. She probably lived here with her two doting parents and her 1.6 siblings. How nice for her. Anyway, I was glad she had gotten home safe. Despite everything, if I had let those horrible guys beat her up, I never would have forgiven myself.
I shivered hard, feeling the icy rain run down my back. I was about to fall over. What to do here, get a plan . . .
I was still waiting for a brilliant inspiration when the side door of the house opened. Ella came out holding a huge umbrella. A shadow moved at her feet. It was a dog, a low-to-the-ground, fat dog.
“Come on, Magnolia,” Ella called. “Make it fast. You don’t want to get too wet.”
The dog started sniffing around the edge of their yard, snuffling in the weeds, oblivious to the rain. Ella turned and walked up and down, twirling her umbrella, scanning her yard. Her back was to me.