Pixie was miraculously born clean. My mom left Ray and sobered up to try her hand at parenting again, a doomed to fail experiment that she should have learned from the first time. But that's Nikki for you; she just keeps repeating the same tired mistakes year after year, blow after blow.

Nikki terminated her parental rights to me when Nancy and Riley started talking about adoption, but when I decided to stay she didn't make one single attempt to get me back. That was fine with me. I didn't want to go back with her. I knew Ray would reappear. Especially when he heard about Pixie.

Wanna hear a dumb story? Nikki named her new daughter Emmie because she had been watching the Emmy Awards when she went into labor. Emmie was never Emmie to me though. At first she was only Ray's spawn and I detested her, the same way you detest a cockroach just for existing. I hated Ray, and that meant I had to hate her too.

I'm sure there were lots of little moments over time that wore me down and made me care about the kid. After awhile I started to feel this need to protect Pixie even though I was trying so hard to hate her. It was an impulse I couldn't ignore. Because of that I saw her every chance I could to make sure Nikki was feeding her and stuff.

Pixie was a fat little toddler with a face like those naked cherubs painted in churches. She was, in a word, adorable. She looked nothing like Ray at all and had inherited Nikki's stunning beauty. Yes, Nikki was beautiful before Ray. Coulda been a model. But meth doesn't do a body good.

There was this one day I came over to see Pixie, and she'd really started to like me by then. I'd had a shit day at school and was not in a good mood, but it's hard not to smile when you see this fat little marshmallow on legs grinning and running at you shouting, "Oz, Oz!" That's how she pronounced my name back then. She was holding this rose rock in one hand and she held it up for me to see. Rose rocks get their color from the red clay in Oklahoma, and they form into the shape of a rose. People say they are the blood and tears of the Native people when they walked the Trail of Tears to get here.

I said, "Wow look at that rock! It's like a rose!"

Back then Pixie always had a gift to give everyone, like flowers and pine cones and stuff, which is partly why I call her Pixie.

She giggled and said, "It's you."

"It's for me?" I said, reaching for it. But this time, unexpectedly, she pulled it close and shook her head.

"It's YOU!" she shouted.

"What do you mean?"

"It's Oz," she said, pointing at me.

That was when I got it. She had made me into a pet rock companion so she could have me there when I wasn't there. You'd have to have a heart of pure stone not to melt at that.

Pixie kept that rock for years, and now I keep it in my wallet. She slept with it at night. She kissed it. She brushed its pretend hair. And all of that love was for me. Until you're loved like that by a little kid, you just don't know how good it feels. Or how it changes you, whether you wanna change or not.

Then Ray came back.

No, I can't go there. I'm shutting the memories down. There's nothing good after that. Nothing I want to remember or even think about. It is a horror story.

That's why I'm doing what I'm about to do.

This is the day I'm going to kidnap Pixie, and everything has to look as normal as possible so I'm spending the afternoon sitting in history class like I always do, even though my mind is a million miles away. It's the last day of school. In my notebook, I'm writing, "Food watter drie snacks cooler w/ ice cloths cotes socs shoos bathrum stuff Pixies toys muney/plce to hide it..."

I've been keeping a mental checklist for weeks, but it's gotten too full so I started writing it down this morning. For the most part it's all packed anyway so the writing is just soothing. I've been taking things out to the van one at a time for the past five days. Pixie still has no idea. I couldn't risk her blabbing it to Mom or Ray. If she does, the whole thing'll be ruined.

Pixie is the wild card in all of this. If she had never been born, I'd just wait to leave until I'm eighteen and I've graduated. She's also my only tie to Mom and Ray, two people I'd be more than happy to forget and leave in my dust. But dammit, I can't leave her. I can't wait around anymore either.

She's turning into me: a glassy eyed shell of a kid who glitches when she talks.

Now is the time.

My teacher is walking over here. I quickly shut my notebook to hide my embarrassing writing.

"Austin, you're a special learner," they told me in elementary school.

Even then, I knew what that meant. I was dumb and they were too nice to say it. They slapped a special-ed label on me, and that's how I made it up to the 12th grade. Well, I would be in 12th grade, but I'm dropping out today. The end of junior year.

"Austin?" my teacher asks.

"Repeat the question?" I say innocently.

"There is no question. Unless you count, 'Why the hell are you still here?' The bell just rang! Have a great summer!" he says good naturedly.

I get up and start stuffing my disorganized binder into my backpack.

"You too," I mumble.

"Any plans?" he asks.

I chuckle. "Oh nothin' too fun. Might take a trip."

"Oh yeah? Where?" he asks, leaning against a nearby desk.

I can't take much more of this small talk. It makes me feel like I'm already caught.

"Don't know yet," I answer truthfully.

After school I head home to wait for nightfall. I live on a farm now with this old couple. They're nice to me. It could be worse. The lady makes apple pies and stuff like that all the time and makes me eat 'till I'm stuffed. The old man calls me "boy" but not in a mean way, and he's always teaching me farm stuff. They need me for the work, that's obvious, but they pay me a decent allowance and it's peaceful here. I've grown strong lifting bunches of hay, hauling wood, working in the garden and feeding all the animals. Like I said, things could be worse. I've heard horror stories about foster homes, but I guess I lucked out. Or maybe my "real" home was as bad as it gets and everything else pales in comparison. Who knows.

Full moonlight tears a big sheet of darkness off the gravel driveway, and I have to put the van in neutral and push it so they won't hear me driving off. The van is one of those huge, criminal-style, creepy vans. It looks like it used to be white, but now it's so rusty and decrepit it doesn't even matter. It's pretty ironic because it looks like the quintessential kidnapping van and here I am, the soon-to-be kidnapper of my little sister. I got the van for cheap last year using the money I've been saving since I was thirteen. Even then, I was already planning to take Pixie and run. I just didn't know it yet.

My whole life, I've been spinning the grand plan for my survival in the back of my head like a spider building a web, until it was big enough to trap all of my excuses and fears.

Once I'm on the road, I start the engine and drive North in the direction of Oklahoma City, where Pixie lives with Mom and Ray in a trailer.

********

The piece of raw chicken in my hand is a squishy, gooey lump, but it's necessary. I park the van down the street from the trailer and walk the rest of the way. Once I'm close enough I make a soft whistling sound and toss the meat to Bat, Ray's Rottweiler. The dog knows me, and likes me, but a friendly bark or the sound of his chain moving or the thump of his tail against the side of the trailer could give away my presence. Not worth the risk.

I take my extra key out of my pocket and replay my excuse story in my head in case I'm caught: "I thought I left my homework here." If they're awake, I can forget the whole damn plan. I'll have to go back to the farm and do this a different night, screw up enough courage to do this all over again, which seems impossible.

I'm pretty sure I timed it right though. Mom and Ray are methheads, and you can tell a methhead is about to crash when they start talking gibberish and acting crazy. Tweaker eyes get this real pyscho look and they'll come at you over anything. But a crash means they'll sleep for days like dead people. According to my best guess, they should have crashed almost two days ago at the earliest and today at the latest. Nine days is the longest I've ever seen them on a binge, but most of the time it's about six days before they crash. Maybe if they wake up they'll think I'm a hallucination.

I take a deep breath as I quietly open the front door. My heart is pounding all the way up into my throat. Ray could shoot me before he recognizes me. Hell, he could shoot me if he does recognize me! I tell my feet to keep walking despite my fear. It is now or never. Now or never. The words match the beat of my soft footprints on the dirty floor. My car keys press against my palm so I can keep them from jingling. The trailer is absolutely still and silent. Bars of moonlight slide in through every opening, and I squeeze between them.

Down the hall, I open Pixie's bedroom door with a soft push since it's not closed all the way. The hinges squeak slightly, but nobody in the silent house stirs. I can see her blond hair in the moonlight coming through the window as she sleeps comfortably in her little bed. I regret not having the chance to safely sedate her with Benadryl earlier, but she's the kind of kid who understands the necessity of staying quiet and out of sight. Once she realizes it's me, she'll be okay. I hope.

I gently give her small shoulder a shake. "It's Austin, Pixie. Wake up."

The five-year-old blearily opens her eyes and squints at me. "Austin?" she asks softly.

"I have a surprise for you. A surprise trip," I whisper, trying not to sound frightened or urgent.

"What trip?" she asks, rubbing her eyes.

"We're going to Disneyworld."

"Disney-" she starts to squeal, and I have to clamp my hand over her mouth.

"You can't make noise. I already packed your things. They're in the van. Come on, really quiet now," I say, holding out my arms to her.

She cooperates, wrapping her arms and legs around me so I can carry her. I turn around and notice the door to her room has closed on its own. Shit. I cross the space and carefully turn the knob and pull it open fast so the hinges won't squeak, and I leave it open behind me. We're almost out of the house, almost free. I start to round the corner from the hallway into the living room where the front door waits and stop in my tracks with a gasp.

Nikki is standing there like a ghost. I'm gripping Pixie way too tight and shaking with nerves. She whimpers a little and squirms, and I loosen my grip before she can make more noise.

Nikki is staring out the window, bathed in the gauzy moonlight. I swear I can see through her and into the yard beyond, where Bat is finishing his chicken. Is she really here? I blink my eyes, but the phantom image of her still doesn't disappear or materialize all the way.

I don't know what to do, but she turns around and looks at us before I can hide. Her eyes are glazed. I see now that she is, indeed, solid and real. I don't have time to make sense of what I thought I saw.

"Hi, Mom," I say softly.

"Austin, it's you. Get me some cigarettes when you come back, 'kay?" she says, and she taps my shoulder as she zombie-glides back to the bedroom.

I let out all my breath and hurry out the front door, locking it behind me. As I pull away in the van, I tell myself to get a grip and drive, drive, drive.