Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Jag doesn’t even look at him.
He scoops me up, an arm under my knees and another around my back. My face presses into the warm denim of his coat. Then he runs.
Not normal running. He runs like an action hero, veering between cars, leaping over trash, and dodging people and their dogs. He flies around corners without slowing, his legs mighty and strong. My arms stay tight around his neck as the world jerks and swings and spins.
No one’s chasing us anymore.
I peek over his shoulder. Nobody. The cashier gave up ages ago.
But Jag keeps going. And going. And going. His breath gets rougher, but he never stops.
Not until we arrive in the land of tents.
Rows and rows of multicolored domes fill the space between buildings, squeezed together so tight we can’t walk between them.
Jags pushes through anyway, carrying me over sleeping men and noisy women with eyes that don’t look right. Our spot is in the very back.
We don’t have one of the fancy real tents. We have something better.
Our fort.
Jag built it himself out of cardboard and plastic sheets that people threw away. It looks like a secret hideout that superheroes use when they need to sleep. The walls fold together in magical ways, and he fixes them every night so the rain doesn’t get in.
Inside, he sets me down on the old blankets and foam pieces he found behind a store.
Everything important—food, water, clothes, the flashlight, the little knife he keeps hidden—stays in the backpack he never takes off, not even when he sleeps. It’s right there on his shoulders now.
I don’t need the things in that bag.
I only need him.
He adjusts the flap of our cardboard door, sealing us away from the big, scary world.
Kneeling beside me, he starts unloading his pockets. The peanuts, candy bar, soap, toothpaste, medicine, matchsticks… Then a can of noodle soup from the backpack. He uses his knife to slice the top open and bends the metal back carefully so it won’t cut me.
He always thinks of stuff like that.
“Here.” He feeds me spoonful by spoonful.
The noodles are soggy, but they slide right into the empty places in my belly. I eat until I’m full, and he finishes the rest without taking a breath.
“Got something for you.” He reaches inside his coat.
I perk up at the strange sound of his voice.
He pulls out a stuffed animal. A soft, fluffy silver cat with whiskers.
“For me?” I’m so excited I could burst.
He nods and hands it over.
The fur is warm from being against his chest, and I hug it so tight it squishes in the middle. It’s perfect. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever held.
“What’s it for?”
His jaw does that bouncing thing, making his face look extra hard.
“It’s your birthday.” He brushes the hair from my eyes. “You’re nine today.”
“Nine?” My heart does a weird jump. “I’m nine?”
“Yeah, Little Bird. Growing up fast.”
I lift the cat to look at it better. Its black shirt is a little crooked, and the red feet look like they walked through paint.
“It’s a jaguar.” I wriggle its legs. “A really fast one like you.”
“It’s called a Trail Cat. The mascot for the basketball team.”
“No.” I squeeze it and pet its little head. “It’s a jaguar. And his name is Little Jag.”
He rolls his eyes, which means I win.
He digs into his pocket one more time and pulls out something wrapped in plastic. A small chocolate cake, the kind they sell at gas stations. It’s squished a little, but who cares? It’s cake.
He unwraps it and sets it in my hands. Then he sings, soft and deep, “Happy birthday to you…”
His voice fills our fort, and I smile so big my cheeks hurt. I have a cat and chocolate cake and my big brother sitting beside me, trying his hardest to sing as good as my mom.
It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.
I break the cake in half and shove one piece at him, but he gives me his stern look, so I huff and eat the whole thing myself. It’s the yummiest thing I’ve ever tasted, even if the frosting sticks to my fingers.
When we’re done, we brush our teeth and go outside to use the portable potty place. Then we hurry back before anyone can talk to us or stare too long.
Inside, Jag pulls the scratchy blankets over us. He lies down with the backpack behind him, and I curl up against his chest. His arms come around me, strong and unmovable.
Outside, voices rise, shouting, crying, metal rattling, and someone moaning too loud. But Jag keeps me safe.
I’m drifting off when his sleepy voice rumbles against my ear.
“You need to go back to school, Dove.”
“Noooooo.” I groan into his shirt.
“You’re smart. Smarter than most kids. You need school so you don’t lose it.”
“I won’t.”
“But for that to work, you might need to stay with a foster family. Just for a little while.”