The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet 1)

The moment he was gone, I plotted a way to leave this farmhouse and the strangely nice family before they devised another way to delay us.

Only, Patricia Wilson knocked on the guest room door, interrupted my plans, and held out medicine while relaying the news from the doctor that the flu had turned to mild pneumonia, and I needed to start a course of antibiotics immediately so I didn’t get worse.

I argued it was just a cold, but Della cried when Patricia shook her head and listed my symptoms. Each one she got right from the bruised ribs, continuous sensation of being out of breath, painful chest, and the incessant cough.

All of that didn’t scare me—it only made me mad to be so weak—but what did scare me was the knowledge I was no use to Della in my current state. I couldn’t protect her the way I wanted. I couldn’t defend her if I needed.

Despite my desire to be far away from these people, I had to swallow those needs and accept help, for Della’s sake.

I sat heavily on the mattress and grudgingly accepted the first tablet. With my spare arm, I held out my hand for Della to join me.

She threw away the donkey cushion and soared into my embrace.

Clutching her close, I eyed up the glass of water Patricia Wilson pushed toward me, then drank deep, washing the medicine deep into my belly so it might start working faster.

Patricia Wilson smiled kindly at us; her motherly instincts, already pronounced from raising her own kids, latched on to caring for us.

I didn’t get the feeling she was cruel like Mrs Mclary or saw me as dollar signs like my own mother. With her red hair, freckles, and purple frilly apron, the only threat she delivered was her fascination with Della. She couldn’t take her eyes off her, and my hackles rose.

Placing the glass on the nightstand, I stood and said around a cough, “Thank you for breakfast and the medicine, but we really need to go.”

“Yes!” Della popped off the mattress faster than I’d ever seen, flying to the door where she wrenched it open, then promptly slammed it shut again as the girl with brown hair called Cassie peered in, catching my eye.

“Tell her to go away. I want to leave.” Della stomped her foot. “I’ll take care of you, Ren. You’ll get better.”

Patricia Wilson moved toward her and squatted down with a sad shake of her head. “Sweetheart, your brother is sick. He’s lucky he found a doctor. Otherwise, he might’ve gotten a lot worse.” Throwing me a look, she added, “You’re both welcome to stay. In fact, I insist on it until everyone is healthy and no more coughing, okay?”

I didn’t do well with instruction even when it came with a promise of being beaten and starved. And I definitely didn’t do well with it after years of freedom and being solely responsible for myself and Della.

“But I don’t want to stay.” Della pouted, beating my refusal.

Patricia Wilson laughed kindly. “Are you sure? When the weather clears, you can go for a ride with Cassie if you want. Or maybe play snakes and ladders with Liam while having a treat of milk and cookies. He’s about your age and loves new friends. Don’t you want another friend, Della?”

My fingers clenched into a fist, regretting, in my weakened state, that I’d told these people our real names. At least, I’d said our surname was Wild—we had that element of protection—but if they happened to research any news or contact Social Services or decide to call the police…

We can’t stay here.

I stepped forward, cursing under my breath as the room spun. A loud, painful cough shredded my lungs, sending me crashing back down on the mattress.

The bedroom door opened, and the entire Wilson family poured in. Liam, a lanky kid with short brown hair and green eyes like his father and sister, clutched a plastic lizard and ran to his mother who still squatted in front of Della. He looked Della up and down, then promptly shoved his lizard in her face.

Della stumbled back, indignation all over her.

I wanted to go and act as a barrier between her and all these people, but the girl with red lips stepped toward the bed, her arms crossed and one green eye covered by bay coloured hair. We stared at each other, her gaze flittering all over me while mine stayed transfixed to her face with the occasional stray to her full chest. Through her tight t-shirt, the indents of a lace bra showed.

I jumped as she said in her crisp, haughty voice, “Dad said you’re not going anywhere.”

My legs bunched to prove her wrong by walking out of there. I barely managed to stand again, let alone shove her out of the way to leave. “We aren’t your prisoners.”