Carolina Moon

You had to eat what God provided or pay the price. Getting sick was better than getting a beating.
    No, don’t think about that, she ordered herself, and shifted on the hard floor. No one was going to make her eat what she didn’t want to eat, not ever again. No one was going to raise a strap to her or a fist.
    She was in charge now.
    She dreamed of sitting on the soft ground by a fire that snapped and smoked and burned the marshmallow she held into the flame on a stick. She liked it burnt so that the outside was black and crackled over the gooey white center. Lifting it out, she blew on the fire that came with it.
    She singed the roof of her mouth, but that was all part of the ritual. The quick pain, then the contrast of crisp and sweet sugar.
    “Might as well eat charcoal,” Hope said, turning her own candy so that it bubbled gold. “Now, this is a perfectly toasted marshmallow.”
    “I like them my way.” To prove it, Tory got another from the bag and stabbed it onto the pointy end of her stick.
    “Like Lilah says, ‘To each his own, said the lady as she kissed the cow.’” Grinning, Hope nibbled delicately on her marshmallow. “I’m glad you came back, Tory.”
    “I always wanted to. I guess maybe I was afraid. I guess I still am.”
    “But you’re here. You came, just like you were supposed to.”
    “I didn’t come that night.” Tory looked away from the fire, into the eyes of childhood.
    “I guess you weren’t supposed to.”
    “I promised I would. Ten thirty-five. Then I didn’t. I didn’t even try.”
    “You have to try now, ‘cause there were more. And there’ll still be more until you stop it.”
    The weight was lowering again so that her eight-year-old chest strained under it. “What do you mean, more?”
    “More like me. Just like me.” Solemn blue eyes, deep as pools, looked through the smoke and into Tory’s. “You have to do what you’re supposed to do, Tory. You have to be careful and you have to be smart. Victoria Bodeen, girl spy.”
    “Hope, I’m not a girl anymore.”
    “That’s why it’s time.” The fire climbed higher, grew brighter. The deep blue eyes captured glints of it, specks of wild light. “You have to stop it.”
    “How?”
    But Hope shook her head and whispered, “Something’s in the dark.”
    Tory’s eyes shot open. Her heart was thundering in her chest, and in her mouth was the taste of fear and burnt candy.
    Something’s in the dark. She heard it, the echo of Hope’s voice, and the rustle, like a tail of the wind through the leaves, just outside her window.
    She saw it, the faint shifting of the light as someone stepped into the path of the moon.
    The child inside her wanted to curl up, to cover her face with her hands, to will herself invisible. She was alone. Defenseless.
    Whoever was outside was watching, waiting. Even through the fear she could feel that. She struggled to blank her mind, to bring the face, the form, the name into it. But there was only the sheer glass wall of terror.
    Not all the terror was hers.
    They’re afraid, too, she realized. Afraid of me. Why?
    Her hand trembled as she slowly reached out for the flashlight beside the blanket. The solid weight of it helped her beat back the worst of the fear. She would not lie helpless. She would defend herself, she would confront, she would take charge.
    The child had been a victim. The woman wouldn’t be.
    She swung up to her knees, flicked at the switch, fumbled, nearly screamed when the beam flashed on. She aimed it at the window like a weapon.
    And there was nothing there but shadows and moon.
    Her breath came in pants, but she got to her feet. She rushed to the door, slapped on the overhead lights. Whoever was outside could see her now. Let them look, she thought. Let them see she wouldn’t cower in the dark.
    The beam of light bobbed as she hurried from the bedroom into the kitchen. Again, she switched on the overheads. Let them look, she thought again, and grabbed a carving knife out of the wooden block she’d unpacked. Let them look and see I’m not defenseless.
    She’d locked the doors, a habit she’d developed in the city. But she was well aware how useless such a precaution was here. One good kick would spring the locks.
    She stepped out of the light, into the shadows of the living room. With her back to the wall, she willed herself to regulate her breathing, until it began to come slow and quiet. She couldn’t see if her thoughts were tumbling, couldn’t