With his bag in hand, Morgan walks my way, yanking open the passenger side door with force. He doesn’t look at me as he throws his bag inside and climbs in, and I don’t say anything as I put the truck in reverse and start to drive, with Morgan giving one-word directions as we head toward the outskirts of town.
We are almost to the county line before Morgan points to a trailer setting right off the highway. I’d hardly consider it livable. There are holes in the roof that definitely leak. One window is covered in cardboard, and trash litters the long driveway.
Morgan squirms in his seat as I take it in, embarrassment heating his cheeks. Then, suddenly, he goes still as his eyes scan the empty driveway.
“Stop the truck,” he demands.
We are still only halfway up, so I shake my head. “I’ll drive you the rest of the way up.”
“STOP THE TRUCK,” he yells, opening the door before I stop and jumping out.
I slam on my breaks and curse, jumping out and following him when the truck is in park.
“Morgan,” I call after him, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps running—harder than I’ve ever seen him run at practice.
I catch up to him right as he runs up the steps. The stairs are rotting, and I slow down, picking my way around the boards as he bursts through the front door.
“Mia,” he screams, “Where are you?”
Entering the house, I weave around a few holes in the floor and follow him to where he disappeared into a bedroom at the back of the trailer.
My steps come up short when I see him squatting in front of a little girl who is sitting on a mattress on the floor with tears streaming down her face. She can’t be more than four or five. Her hair is a mess of knots and tangles, and her eyes are the same dark green as Morgan’s. She could be his twin.
He whispers something in her ear, and her eyes dart up to where I’m standing, going wide when she sees me standing there.
She says something to Morgan while still staring at me, and he turns his head to look at me, too.
“You need to go.” From the look on his face, it’s clear he had been in too much of a panic to notice. I was following him, but I can’t go. Not now.
“I think we should talk outside for a minute,” I say, smiling at the little girl.
Something on my face must tell him I’m not leaving until we do because he sighs and kisses the little girl on the forehead before standing up and following me back outside.
He pulls the door shut behind him when we are standing on the porch.
Shoving my hands in my pocket, I lean against one of the sturdier posts.
“Is she yours?” I ask, hoping the answer is no but knowing anything could happen. Morgan is eighteen, meaning the girl would have been born when he would have been fourteen if she is his.
“No,” he growls, but he doesn’t expound.
“Then who is she?” I ask, holding his gaze long enough so he knows I won’t let this go.
Huffing, he drops his shoulders and finally gives in. “She’s my sister.”
“How old is she?”
“Six.”
He throws his hands up when I furrow my brows and says, “I swear, man. She looks young for her age. Her mom did a lot of drugs or something when she was pregnant.”
“You don’t have the same mom?” I know I’m pushing the line with my questioning, but I can’t just walk away, not after seeing this.
“No.”
“Is yours around?”
“She’s dead.” The callousness of his voice stops my line of questioning.
