Thoren
Becca’s cries grew stronger the farther we ran.
They were weak, broken little sounds, interrupted every few seconds by another cough, but every breath she managed to pull into her tiny lungs eased the vice that had been tightening around my chest since I pulled her from the pond.
Miranda never left my side.
She stumbled more than once trying to match my pace, one hand constantly reaching toward her daughter as though she needed to feel for herself that Becca was still there.
“I’ve got her,” I said quietly.
Miranda nodded, though tears continued spilling freely down her face.
“I know.”
The words came out as little more than a whisper.
“I know.”
As we rounded the next corner, House Thirty-Seven came into view.
Jake and Matthew sat on the front porch. Jake spotted us first.
