The Breeders by Katie French Page A

drug out for the coyotes.
    “My parents and Auntie are dead because of you.” I feel my pocketknife pressing against my thigh, waiting for me.
    Clay’s forehead furrows and he turns his eyes away. When he looks at me again, his voice is almost too quiet to hear. “Your ma and auntie aren’t dead.”
    Suddenly the world feels smaller, heavier. “What’d you say?”
    He blows out a breath. “They ain’t dead. We … they took ’em into custody. Nothing I could do.”
    Not dead. My mother and Auntie Bell aren’t dead. But what’s happening to them? Were they sold to the Breeders? The thought of them going back there feels like an iron fist around my insides.
    Clay takes a few steps sideways. He takes his hat off and tucks it to his chest, a cowboy’s act of contrition if I ever saw it. Then he nods down at Ethan’s arm. “He needs disinfectant or that’ll fester. Coyot’ bites are nasty.”
    “I know that,” I say, taking a few steps toward our back door. I walk slowly past him, never taking my eyes away.
    He gestures toward the bike sitting in our driveway with his hat. “Got a first aid kit on the bike. It’s not much, but I got antiseptic and bandages.” He brings his hat back to his chest and smiles.
    Arn in the dirt, left to die.
    “We don’t need your help.” I run up the steps and lock the door behind me.
    * * *
    Ethan’s arm worsens.
    I wash the wound with water, but it’s not enough. The four slashes, deep bloody valleys with peaks of shredded skin, swell and puss. While Ethan moans and rocks on the bed, I scour the house for soap, disinfectant, anything. I pull apart every cupboard and closet. I come up empty handed.
    In the barn I knock over empty gas cans, dig through drawers and fling empty bottles from shelves. I find nothing but fat centipedes and oily rags. My heart won’t stop thudding in my chest. What if there’s nothing? Desperate tears threaten, but I dig my fingernails into my palms and keep searching. I gotta find something. I gotta.
    I save Arn’s workbench for last. There’s too much pain hovering around his worn table, the notes tacked above in his slanted scrawl, his projects never to be finished. I walk to it slowly, feeling the waves of sadness wash over me as my eyes touch all the things that he never will.
    My vision’s drawn to something smooth and shiny on a top shelf. My hand closes around the brown glass dropper. I lift the three-inch bottle up to the light. Brown liquid sloshes inside. Half a bottle of iodine. Jackpot.
    I run back to the house. When I barrel into Ethan’s room, he’s a sweaty moaning mess. I slide up to his bed and push the hair out of his eyes.
    “I got it, bud,” I say, unscrewing the bottle. “Hold still.”
    He moans, but stops thrashing. I fill the little dropper with iodine and drip it into his wounds. Such a little fix for such a huge problem. I pray it’ll be enough.
    Ethan calms a little, though his arm still throbs. I find myself rubbing his sweaty back and singing verses of “You Are My Sunshine” and “Rock-a-bye Baby,” songs my mother would sing on nights when we were fitful or the thunder rattled the walls. The words feel heavy in my mouth.
    He falls into a feverish sleep. Exhausted, I stumble down the hall.
    Night has crept up in all the commotion. I stare out the ragged hole that was our front window to the quiet of our yard. The cool twilight air that pulses in feels good on my face. Somewhere an owl gives a mournful hoot and the insects buzz in harmony. I run my hands over my arms and slump on the couch. The familiar smells and sounds help me to breathe.
    I’ve spent most of the day alternating between beating myself up for letting Ethan check a trap alone and picturing Auntie and my mama in chains. Now in the dark, my thoughts fly to them. Are they crouched against a concrete wall in one of the jail cells, waiting for the Breeders to collect their prize? My mind supplies chains on their ankles or collars around