Page 6 of Dove
And I don't like them.
Because it doesn't matter that there won't be enough water in the river this late in the summer for her to jump from the bridge. It doesn't matter that there will only be one pool deep enough to catch her, and that one impossible to reach for that tiny girl. If she gets there before I can stop her, she'll jump anyhow.
The same way she always tries to.
Because at her base, Samantha Price is a girl who's been deserted so many times that she no longer thinks her own life is worth saving. And I'm the only one paying enough attention to try to keep her here.
I wake with a start and jump up, my brain intent on getting to the bridge and grabbing Sammy before she can do anything stupid, then jerk in surprise when my bare feet don't find meadow grass and daisies under them. Instead, I'm standing on bare wood.
A hard wood floor, to be exact, with my big toe resting on a throw rug made of red and white rags.
I look at the rug, my brain snagged on what it could be doing in the meadow, and then glance down at the floor. My eyes come up to the room itself–four walls, a dresser, and a roughly made bed frame covered in a mattress and far too many blankets–and then to the door itself. That door is open, and beyond it...
The house.
Aunt Sue's house.
And in the kitchen, the rattling of dishes that tells me Sammy is out there, making a mess of the place the same way she always does, as she makes some sort of chaotic breakfast that will look like it should be terrible and taste delicious.
Not the meadow.
Not the mountain.
And not our sixteen-year-old selves, plotting against the man who likes to pretend he's our father.
I'm at home, and that dream was a memory of us three years ago.
The squeeze in my heart eases a bit, and my body relaxes with the realization that I don't have to save Sammy from her games on the bridge right now. I can sit. I can breathe for a moment, and plan the day out before I even leave my room.
Of course, I should know better.
I've lived with Sammy too long to ever get a moment of peace.
"Cameron, are you up?" she shouts from the kitchen. "Get dressed! I've got breakfast and coffee, and the truck is already running. We've got a delivery to make! And after that, I want to go to the bridge!"
Moments later, the door slams, and a second after that her words sink in. She isn't making breakfast. I don't have a chance to sit and plan out my day–or the delivery we have to make up at Old Man Rivers' house.
She was crashing around to wake me up because she's leaving.
Like, now.
And the delivery in question is right next to that meadow, and the bridge that just appeared in my dreams.
The one she likes to try to jump off if I'm not there to stop her.
I'm in action before I can think about it, grabbing jeans and fresh boxers, a shirt that won't embarrass me, and then my boots. I don't even pause for socks, because I don't have time. I'm through the door to my bedroom and then through the kitchen in seconds flat, grabbing a croissant on the way by the counter and charging for the door to the driveway without thinking about anything else. By the time I get outside she's already in the truck and pulling out, and it's all I can do to catch the fucking thing before she gets onto the road. I leap when I'm still three feet away, praying to the world that I haven't misjudged, and hit the tailgate just as she turns out, sliding over it and into the bed with a roll I perfected three years ago.
When Sammy first started driving and decided it was funny to leave the house without me and make me chase her.
I roll onto my back, pull my jeans on, and then get to my knees. We're already at the stop sign a block away, and I take themomentary pause to slide the window open and smack her in the arm.
"You're going to kill me one of these days," I say, though there's no heat in it.
She just laughs. "Absolutely not. I'd sell my own soul to save you, and you know it."
The problem is, I do.
Because I've seen her try to do that, too.
