Chapter 9
KAYLA
Kayla’s birthdayThirteen years old
Deacon never warned me that sneaking out isn’t the hardest part; it’s sneaking in that is.
The tree beneath my feet sways as I shift on its thickest branch. My fingers brace against the base of the thick oak and though my knees are shaking, though the bark is starting to bite into the denim of my jean shorts, I somehow manage to find the energy to knock on the window.
Grandmama June’s house is covered with pollen. Saturated with it. Some of it gets on my knuckles. And still I rap the back of my fingers—raw and reddened from climbing, on the glass again, hoping he will hear me.
And he does.
Several seconds later, a pair of long fingers reaches for the edge of the bedroom window, pulling upwards. A dim amber-colored light spills from
