Prologue

The bump of bass made the stereo speakers vibrate. The sound almost drowned out the yelling. Almost. Greg sat with his back against the headboard of his bed and his legs crossed at the ankles, holding his breath, waiting for the big boom.

The music moved through his body, upsetting his stomach enough that it began to ache. He forgot about the book in his hand. Harper Lee and Scout had taken over English class and every tenth grader's life except for Greg's. The fighting, coming from his parents' bedroom, consumed everything.

Greg reached over and turned up the volume. The neighbors three houses over could probably overhear the guitar wail, and the vocalist sang about having nothing.

The yelling moved past his closed bedroom door, leaking through the crack at the bottom. His mother's slurred words made little sense, which meant she was drunk or high enough that she couldn't speak. His father's voice wasn't much clearer, and the lower register made understanding difficult. Greg didn't want to know anyway. They filled every word with venom that would spill over onto him.

He had read a book about snakes in grade school. The book talked about a spitting cobra, that shot venom through a hole in each fang.

If the venom reached someone's eyes or mouth, the poison would take hold, shutting down organs at a faster rate than made Greg comfortable to imagine.

The cobra always had a reason for spitting. Someone or something threatened it to the point that it set it off. The venom was a defense that ended up being lethal to whoever decided to intimidate it.

People underestimated a spitting cobra like they underestimated words.

They thought any animal that crawled on its belly couldn't possibly reach as far up as their face. Little words didn't seem like abuse as much as a fist in the face.

Not until they spoke each hateful syllable, and venom felt like acid on his skin.

Something big fell to the floor, shaking the house. Glass shattered. He stiffened and forgot about how his parents compared to spitting cobras. He put his book down on the bed and stood, running for his bedroom door.

The bookshelf lay at an angle in the hallway, barring his way. All the movie videos and books lay beneath it in one big heap. His fifth-grade school picture sat on the floor with the frame's glass broken into hundreds of pieces on the top of his face, distorting his smile.

The yelling stopped. Flesh hitting flesh replaced it. Dad grunted right before he called Mom a bitch. Punches started again, and Mom screamed.

He went back into his room and pulled on a pair of old sneakers, not wanting to cut his feet on the glass from the frame when he passed it.

He climbed over the bookshelf, sliding across the back.

The hallway opened into the living room. His father lay on his side on top of the coffee table. A drinking glass had tipped over, its contents spilling onto the floor. A wet spot circled in front of the glass, soaking the carpet.

His mother gripped his father's shirt in both fists. She had pulled her dark hair back from her face into a ponytail that morning, but the fight had wrangled the strands loose until it fell to the sides of her head. She tried to lift his father but didn't have enough strength.

"Mom!" Greg ran over to her and tried to pull her off. He took her by the shoulders. Stepping into her was a mistake, and he knew it the second her elbow came back into his gut.

He let her go, taking a step back.

His father pushed her off him, sending her into Greg, who hit the wall and the metal candle thing hanging there. The glass globe, covering the pink candle, fell to his shoulder and then onto the floor. The leafy end of the metal cut into the side of his head.

He and his mother both slid until they sat on the carpet. She didn't stay down but came up like a bullet. Either Greg had softened her fall, or she'd drunk herself into not feeling her injuries. Whatever the reason, she went after his father with murder on her mind.

Greg drew his legs to his chest, trying to avoid his parents tussling around him.

His father grabbed his mother's wrists before she had another chance to use her fists on him. "Knock it off, Sherri. Before you hurt the boy again."

Mom kicked at him. "Like you give a shit."

Greg rolled to his knees, putting a hand to the back of his head when it throbbed. His fingers were wet with blood. Some of it streaked on the wall as he turned and stood. Blood seeped through his fingers as he headed for the front door. The four feet felt like miles and, when he had it open, the bright afternoon sun sent stabbing pain through his brain.

Sirens indicated one of his neighbors had called the chief again.

He sat down in the yard and closed his eyes, waiting for help, not that the cops ever did anything that had a lasting effect. They wouldn't keep Roger and Sherri Mitchell locked up forever. The cops couldn't keep his parents from drinking and drugs any more than Greg could.

Greg supposed it was an inevitable fact that he would grow up and be like them. He didn't want to, and he told his friend Kyler that he wasn't going to. Deep down, he understood he had little hope.

He always felt as if he were on the edge of a cliff. One day he would tear everything he knew apart until he couldn't recognize it anymore. When that happened, he would put himself firmly in Sherri and Roger's shoes.

The chief pulled onto the side of the road. His deputy pulled in behind him. The deputy got out of his car and headed straight for the house.

The chief shook his head even before he stepped out of his car. His beer belly came out first. He took the ten steps to get to Greg and knelt in front of him. "You okay, son?"

Greg shook his head. "Need stitches, I think."

The neighbor's screen door squeaked open and then snapped shut again. Mrs. Walters walked across her yard and into his. She had on a housecoat. Her hair was as gray as the chief's, but Mrs. Walters walked with hunched shoulders as if she'd carried the weight of the world at some point in her past, and that had taken a toll on her body. She knelt beside Greg and took his hand away from the wound.

She winced and put his hand back. "I'll be right back."

She stood and did a shuffle-run thing back into her house, the screen door squeaking and snapping again.

The chief watched her for a few seconds before diverting his gaze to Greg. "You know I can't leave you here this time, right?"

Greg closed his eyes and nodded. The chief had threatened it last time. Of course, the chief didn't see it as a threat, but it had always felt that way. Greg didn't have anywhere to go, but he didn't have to tell the chief that. He already knew.

Mrs. Walters came out of the house with a first aid kit. She knelt beside him again and took his hand into hers, moving it away. Greg bent, letting her press gauze to his wound. Blood covered his hand, but he tried to ignore it, closing the mess into his fist.

"You know the Heaths?"

"Know of them." Greg knew the Heaths owned the biggest farm in Pickleville. That was about all.

"I already talked to the farm foreman. His name's Leonard. He'll become your guardian if you want. Or I can call CPS. It's up to you." Either way, he would live with strangers. Seemed like a lose-lose from where he sat.

The deputy came out with his mother in handcuffs. Her eyes were glassy, which made her curled lips and scowl a little less menacing. "Little bitch." She spat as the deputy pushed her forward.

Then again, living with strangers wouldn't be any worse than his parents.

His father came out on his own, swaying a bit. He practically fell next to Greg. Dad put his head on Greg's shoulder and sighed. "That woman."

The chief stood and picked Dad up. He had him in handcuffs before Dad knew what had happened. He blinked and turned back to Greg. "Sorry, son."

The chief led Dad to his car.

An ambulance pulled into the driveway.

Mrs. Walters leaned into him. "I know Leonard. He's a good man. He'll do right by you. Everyone on the Heath farm will."

Greg met her gaze.

She smiled. "You're a good boy."

The paramedics and their equipment took over his world. Mrs. Walters stayed beside him until the ambulance rolled to life.