I looked at Raymond. He stared at me through the smoke and never moved a finger. No anger. No pity. No surprise. Just annoyance, as if I were a leak in the ceiling or a broken chair someone ought to throw outside.
Then Evelyn yanked open the wooden door. The wind burst in like a furious animal, whipping the curtains and nearly snuffing out the lamp.
“One less mouth to feed,” she said.
And she threw me into the storm.
I hit the frozen mud and dirty snow of the yard on my back. The door slammed shut with a crack so sharp that years later I still heard it in my dreams. Somehow I got to my feet, clutching my burned arm to my chest. I cried the way I always cried—without sound. Tears fell, my body shook, but my throat stayed locked shut.
I knocked once. Then again.
No one answered.
Through a narrow gap, I saw warmth inside. Light. The shape of Evelyn moving past the stove. Heat that was not meant for me. And with the clean, cruel understanding children sometimes have, I knew that if I stayed there, I would die before morning.
So I started walking.