From the book
p r o l o g u eI didn’t tell Dad about Granmama’s white owl. I know I shouldhave.
There’s that space between sleep and dreaming wherethings—not quite dreams, not fully fledged precognition, but weirdlittle blends of both—sometimes get in. Your eyes open, slow anddreamy, when the sense of someone looking rises through the cotton-woolfog of being warm and tired.
That’s when I saw it.The owl ruffled itself up on my windowsill drenched in moonglow,each pale feather sharp and clear under icy light. I hadn’t botheredto pull the cheap blinds down or hang up the curtains. Why bother,when we—Dad and me—only spend a few months in any town?
I blinked at the yellow-eyed bird. Instead of the comfort thatmeans Gran is thinking about me—and don’t ask how I know thedead think of the living; I’ve seen too much not to know—I felt asharp annoyance, like a glass splinter under the surface of my brain.The owl’s beak was black, and its feathers had ghostly spots likecobwebs, shadows against snowy down. It stared into my sleepy eyesfor what seemed like eternity, ruffling just a bit, puffing up the wayGran always used to when she thought anyone was messing with me.
Not again. Go away.
It usually only showed up when something interesting or reallyfoul was about to happen. Dad had never seen it, or at least I didn’tthink so. But he could tell when I had, and it would make him reachfor a weapon until I managed to open my mouth and say whether wewere going to meet an old friend—or find ourselves in deep shit.
The night Gran died the owl had sat inside the window whileshe took her last few shallow, sipping breaths, but I don’t think thenurses or the doctor saw it. They would have said something. By thatpoint I knew enough to keep my mouth shut, at least. I just sat thereand held Gran’s hand until she drained away; then I sat in the hallwhile they did things to her empty body and wheeled it off. I curledup inside myself when the doctor or the social worker tried to talk tome, and just kept repeating that my dad would know, that he was onhis way—even though I had no clue where he was, really. He’d beengone a good three months, off ridding the world of nasty things whileI watched Gran slide downhill.
Of course, that morning Dad showed up, haggard and unshaven,his shoulder bandaged and his face bruised. He had all the ID,signed all the papers, and answered all the questions. Everythingturned out okay, but sometimes I dream about that night, wonderingif I’m going to get left behind again in some fluorescent-lit corridorsmelling of Lysol and cold pain.
I don’t like thinking about that. I settled further into thepillow, watching the owl’s fluffing, each feather edged with coldmoonlight.
My eyes drifted closed. Warm darkness swallowed me, andwhen the alarm clock went off it was morning, weak winter sunshinespilling through the window and making a square on the browncarpet. I’d thrashed out of the covers and was about to freeze my assoff. Dad hadn’t turned the heater up.
It took a good twenty minutes in the shower before I felt anythingclose to awake. Or human. By the time I stamped down the stairs, Iwas already pissed off and getting worse. My favorite jeans weren’tclean and I had a zit the size of Mount Pinatubo on my templeunder a hank of dishwater brown hair. I opted for a gray T-shirt anda red hoodie, a pair of combat boots and no makeup.
Why bother, right? I wasn’t going to be here long enough foranyone to care.
My bag smacked the floor....