Free Sing Sweet Nightingale by Erica Cameron

they won’t have to. Last winter was colder than ever. Despite hiding in the basement of the library most nights, I barely survived. If I don’t figure something out soon, I may not make it through the next winter.
    I force myself to lie quietly until the pain begins to ease and my breathing evens. I’m starting to drift off to sleep— finally —when my vision is stained red.
    My eyes shoot open, expecting a cop’s flashlight, but that’s not what I find.
    Near my feet is a glowing archway. The light is white and shimmery, like iridescent glitter, and it’s so tall the top nearly brushes the ceiling. Inside, instead of seeing the cement wall of the basement, I’m looking at evenly spaced wooden pillars and a reed-mat floor. Standing on that mat is a woman with curves that would make a Playboy model jealous. She’s wearing a long, butter-yellow dress, and her white hair hangs down to her waist. She looks like an angel when she smiles at me, holding out her hands.
    “Hudson, come with me.” Her voice reminds me of the breeze rustling through the trees near the lake. Soft and subtle and calming. “Let me help you.”
    Did I die? Maybe the scratch on my side got infected. Maybe I’ve been slowly bleeding to death from internal injuries for the past week. Who knows? If this is death, if she’s what’s waiting for me on the other side, then fuck it. I’m letting go.
    I push to my feet, wincing as the gauze shifts and sends little twinges of pain through my body. I was really hoping death wouldn’t hurt this much.
    At the edge of the portal, I hesitate. If this is a dream, it’s the realest dream I’ve ever had. And if it’s not…If it’s not, I have no goddamn clue what’s going on.
    “Come, child,” she says, beckoning me forward.
    Holding my breath, I reach through the glowing arch for her hand. I jump a little when my fingers meet warm, solid flesh. And then I step into her world, and the glowing portal closes behind me, sealing me in.
    I should be scared, on edge, body tingling and ready to run. But I’m not. For the first time in so long I can’t remember, my muscles start to loosen. Closing my eyes, I hear birds chirping in the distance and the quiet splash of water running over rocks. There’s a sweet scent on the cool breeze that reminds me of honey.
    This place is impossible. Like something out of a movie or fantasy novel. I stare down into her glacier-blue eyes and ask, “Who are you?”
    “My name is Calease,” she says. I want to ask her more questions—like where the hell am I and how did I get here? Before I can, she takes both my hands in hers and asks, “What do you want most in the world, Hudson? If you could ask for anything, what would it be?”
    Her words are like a well-placed chisel against a wall of cracking marble. One blow and everything I’ve been blocking out for two years busts back into my head.
    Training myself not to think about the past took a long time, but what choice did I have when my parents passed me off to Social Services for being a pain in their asses?
    It’s not like I did it on purpose. Not once have I started a fight. Not once did I go looking for trouble. Trouble has a way of finding me, over and over and over again. I protected dozens of people who weren’t willing to step up and do me the same favor. But I passed by the house not long ago and saw something that shot me through the chest. My mother was holding a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. I have a brother.
    Despite everything that’s happened in the past two years, there’s one thing I desperately want.
    My voice cracks when I whisper, “I want to go home.”
    “I can help you do that. If you will let me.”
    “Why would you help me ?” No one helps me. The old man I saved, Horace, asked if I needed anything, but he’ll forget me soon. Everyone does.
    “Because you are special,” she says, placing one hand on my cheek. “And because someone should.”
    The memory leaves me chilled. I