Flowers in the Snow by Danielle Stewart Page A

protected by love. She turned away from Winnie’s porch and drudged back to the woods. Shacks that weren’t burned were covered in spray paint, curse words and hateful things marked on every available surface. If the people who did this understood how kind everyone here was then surely they’d stop. Betty considered parading down Main Street and educating everyone. But now, thanks to Winnie, she knew better.
    When she turned on her heel to leave she prayed things would go back to the way they were before. If only she could keep coming to Alma’s and making bracelets and learning to cook. The world wouldn’t be perfect, she understood that, but her little piece of it could be good.
    She could still smell the smoke of Winnie’s cooking fire when she saw him. About ten yards to the left of the path to her home was a person wobbling without much sense of direction. Looking more like an animal than a man, the sight of him made her heart stiffen with fear.
    Betty crouched down and held her breath until she could get a better look at the figure moving toward her. The tightness in her chest faded away instantly when she saw the familiar face.
    “Simpson,” she shouted as she shot up to a standing position. “What are you doing out here?”
    “Beatrice?” he asked, seeming to look through her rather than at her. “What are you . . .?” his voice trailed off as he swayed on his feet.
    The closer he got the more Betty could tell what was wrong. Simpson’s eyes were rimmed purple and the skin of his brow was split open. Slumping shoulders and a limp in his step let Betty know he’d been beaten up. One of his hands was pressing tight to a rag on his other wrist.
    “What happened to you?” Betty asked, running up to help steady him. He stood six inches taller than her and during the last summer his shoulders had filled out. She’d have no real shot of holding him up if his legs gave out completely, but she had to try.
    “I pissed off my jerk of a dad again,” he grumbled as he leaned himself against a tree. “Get out of here. Leave me alone.”
    “I can’t leave you here. Your arm is bleeding. If I go get help you might pass out, stop putting pressure on your arm, and bleed to death. And there’s no way I can get you all the way back home by myself.” Betty’s mind was racing through her options. Simpson had been a pain in the ass over the years but she’d also known him since they were babies. No matter how much of a jerk he’d tried to be, every single time it came down to helping her, he always did. She wanted to repay the kindness he’d always tried to pretend he wasn’t giving her.
    “Leave me alone. I don’t want anyone’s help.” With a halfhearted swat of his hand, Simpson tried to shoo her away. In doing so he exposed the cut that was spurting blood from his wrist.
    “Cover it,” Betty shouted, grabbing the rag and using her hand to press down on his wound. “Come on, I know where we can go.”
    Simpson opened his mouth to protest but no words came. His eyes fixated on Betty’s tiny fingers clutched around his wrist. When his mouth clamped shut again she grabbed the collar of his shirt with her free hand and yanked him along.
    At the top of the hill at the edge of the woods she looked down over Winnie’s house and then back at Simpson. This was a terrible idea. No one would be pleased with her. Surely she’d lose more than one friend by the time the sun set this evening. But at least no one would die.
    “Who lives there?” Simpson asked as he tripped his way down the hill toward the shack.
    “They’re my friends. They’ll help you,” Betty explained, praying she was right about both those statements.
    Simpson tried to pull away but it only made him less steady. “We can’t, Beatrice.”
    “Don’t call me that. Round here they call me Betty. You best do the same. Now you can either stay up in those woods and die, or you can let them help you.”
    Rather than knocking on the door,