The Number

I don't remember deciding to scream. I just did, loud enough that Pip's door banged open down the hall and Birdie started crying somewhere behind him, and for one second Vesta's grip loosened — just enough.

I didn't run for the front door. I ran for Pip and Birdie's room, because whatever happened next, I wasn't leaving them behind for her to deal with alone.

"Get in the closet," I told them, shoving them both toward it, "and don't come out no matter what you hear, okay? No matter what."

Birdie was already crying too hard to argue. Pip just nodded, white-faced, and pulled her in after him.

I turned around and Vesta was in the doorway, and for the first time since I'd known her, she didn't look like a woman deciding how hard to swing. She looked like a woman doing math — how much time she had, how far the car was, whether three kids and a box of fake names could all still fit in the same story she'd have to tell to whoever showed up next.

Which turned out to be sooner than either of us expected.

Headlights swept across the ceiling. A car door. Then another. Then a third.

I found out later — much later, from Priya herself — that Mr. Ondo had never really let it go, that quiet "no" I'd given him about my wrist. He'd flagged it anyway, the way teachers are supposed to and don't always do. That flag had crossed Priya's desk the same afternoon she'd found the third license under a third name in a third county, and two worried professionals put two files together faster than any system ever could have on its own.

By the time the front door opened, it wasn't just Priya standing there. It was Priya, and a county sheriff's deputy, and a folder thick enough that it needed both her hands to carry.

"Vesta Coombs," Priya said, and her voice didn't shake at all. "Or should I say — Doreen Aldrich. Or Carla Ness. We're going to need you to come with us. And we're going to need to talk about eleven other children, across four counties, who've been waiting a very long time for somebody to compare notes."

Eleven. I hadn't even known the number until right then, standing in the hallway in my socks with Pip and Birdie's door shut tight behind me.

Vesta's eyes found mine over the deputy's shoulder, and for just a second she didn't look dangerous anymore — she looked like a woman who'd finally run out of names to hide behind. Which somehow made what she said next worse.

"This isn't over," she said, quiet enough that only I could hear it. "They never let siblings stay together. You know that, don't you? You'll never see either of them again."

She was still smiling when the deputy walked her to the car.