Near the Bone by Christina Henry (the mitten read aloud txt) 📕

enough to hold up the bus. Sometimes the weatherman would predict snow for the morning that wouldn’t arrive in time to disrupt the school day. The girls would rush to their bedroom windows in hopes of seeing a proper blizzard outside, and instead there would be bare sidewalk and bright sun, no hint of snow anywhere. Then they would drag themselves downstairs, heels slamming against the wooden stairs, their bodies seemingly made of dripping rubber and their voices to match.

“Whhhhyyyy do we have to go to school today?”

And their mother would tell them that it was hard luck but that was the way it was. Mattie knew their mother would tell them this but she couldn’t hear it, not the same way she heard her own voice or Heather’s.

Why can’t I remember my own mother?

A thick fall of snow was coming down. Mattie saw it filling in the marks made by the creature and the telltale footprints of the strangers who’d violated William’s mountaintop sanctuary. She realized just how lucky the two strangers had been that William hadn’t been home when they arrived. William would have chased them off with the rifle instead of pretending not to be at home.

You’re still more of a mouse than a falcon, you know.

She ignored that voice, the one that sounded like Samantha. Samantha had never been scared, not really, so it was easy for her to be fearless. Samantha had never lost a part of herself in a deep well.

“But I’m trying,” Mattie whispered, turning away from the window. “I am trying.”

She made tea and cut off a slice of bread. She was half-tempted to sneak a little butter, just a scraping, but William was sure to have noted the precise shape and amount of butter left in the dish.

One day she would be away from him and she would eat all the food she wanted, eat until her stomach was stretched tight and she felt like she could hardly walk.

And I’ll have . . .

Her thoughts ground to a halt there, because she didn’t know what she would have. The only food she could think of was the food that she and William ate—stews made from animals hunted in the woods, or fish fried in the cast iron pan, or vegetables she took out of her garden. The only things that they ate that weren’t made by their own hands were butter and eggs and milk, which William collected from town. He said that chickens were too much trouble to raise and would attract too much attention.

Mattie had never questioned this, the same way she’d never questioned anything that William said, but she realized now that it was true. Chickens made noise—roosters especially—and might attract the attention of anyone wandering nearby who’d ignored the private property signs that C.P. and Griffin had mentioned.

If I manage to get away from here alive (and this was not a certain concept, not at all, when she stopped to think about how many things could go wrong it was enough to paralyze her), I’m never eating venison or rabbit or fried fish again. I’ll eat all the foods that people eat in the other places.

She still couldn’t imagine what those foods might be, though. The only food she remembered was ice cream.

Mattie stared down at her plate, now empty of its meager bread slice, and tried to imagine it filling with some food that she’d eaten with Mom and Heather. But the tin plate remained the same, a blank space scattered with a few crumbs.

She glanced at her work basket. There were many things to mend in it—there always seemed to be more clothing to mend—but she couldn’t dredge up the energy at the moment. All the shocks of the last twenty-four hours—the cave, the stranger, the beating, dragging herself through the snow, the creature stalking her, William locking her out, the two men showing up at her door—seemed to suddenly press on her, and all she wanted was to go to sleep. She hadn’t slept in ages.

Mattie lay down on the couch with a blanket rolled up for a pillow—the cushions were hard, and not very good for sleeping, but she wanted to be near the fire. It didn’t matter that the couch wasn’t comfortable, though—she was asleep almost before her head touched the blanket.

William at the window.

He was knocking, knocking very softly, like it was a secret he only wanted her to hear.

She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes, and saw him there, waving at her.

“Open the window,” he said, his voice faint through the glass.

If it had been anyone else she never would have, but it was William, so she hopped out of bed and dragged her wooden desk chair over the carpet and up to the window. She climbed onto the chair—she was very small for an eight-year-old, and Heather always teased her about it, but Mom would hug her and say good things came in small packages so Samantha didn’t mind.

It was hard for her to push the window all the way open, but once she got it partway, William helped her lift it the rest of the way.

“Good girl, Sam,” he said.

“Where’s the screen?” she asked.

“It’s right there,” he said in a whisper, and she peered out and saw it leaning against the house. “Let me through, Sammy girl.”

“What are you doing?” she asked as he climbed into her bedroom. “Why don’t you knock on the door like a regular person?”

He wasn’t dressed the way he was usually dressed. His clothes were all black.

“You look like a ninja,” she said, and a giggle escaped her.

“Be very quiet,” he said, holding a finger to his lips. “Be very, very quiet.”

“Like Elmer Fudd,” Sam said. “Hunting rabbits.”

“Exactly,” William said, and swiped at her nose with his thumb. “Like Elmer Fudd. I need you to stay so quiet and so still in here, just like you’re still asleep. I’m going to surprise your mother.”

“Oh!” Sam said. “Can I help?”

“You already did,” he said, and