Free The Breeders by Katie French Page B

starve.
    I sit at the table with Ethan and spoon manufactured chicken noodle soup in my mouth. The soup is thick and savory and I can’t help but enjoy it a little. As I roll the slippery noodles around on my tongue, I think about Clay and what he’s playing at. Why would he want us to trust him? If he wanted to capture us, he could pull up with a band of armed men. What could he gain from being kind? Maybe he just likes torturing his prey before he pounces and bites their heads off.
    The next day, there’s a homemade apple pie sitting on the porch. Ethan watches me with desperate eyes as I cradle the pie and bring it to the table. We hover around it and stare at the sugary apples peaking out through the slats of toasted crust. My stomach somersaults.
    “Please don’t throw it away.” Ethan tugs on my elbow.
    Though I’m desperate for the taste of that pie in my mouth, my pride can’t allow it. I push the tin towards Ethan. “Eat it all.” I leave before I can change my mind.
    I head to our bedroom and pull on my coveralls, long-sleeved t-shirt and boots. I gotta do something other than sit and sulk at my inability to provide. At Clay’s ability to do it so easily.
    “Hey, pie face,” I yell. “Let’s go check some snares so we don’t have to depend on treats from terrorists.”
    Ethan meanders in, smelling of baked goods. The wide smile on his crumb-covered face deepens the hurt mounting in my gut. Clay brought him that happiness.
    “Put your boots on,” I grumble.
    The smile slips off Ethan’s face, but he does what I ask. God, no matter what I do I feel like a loathsome, hairy dirt pie.
    The sun bakes our heads as we tromp through the yard to the snares. The dust kicked up gets Ethan’s asthma going again. We take a break in the shade of a rotted cactus husk and stare out over the crumbling landscape. The sea of brown stretches as far as I can see. Life was nearly impossible with three adults working their fingers to the bone. Now it’s just me and the kid. We have four more days of canned goods in the cellar. Without the gifts from Clay, our only hope is the snares. Rabbits are plentiful, but the coyotes get to them before we do. And leaving isn’t an option. Even if we had somewhere to run, we got no fuel. I tuck my chin to my knees and try not to think about what it would feel like to starve to death.
    A buzzard spins in lazy circles overhead and Ethan tracks it with his eyes. “You think buzzards see color?”
    I glance at him. A dark lock of hair falls in his eyes and he blows it up with a puff of air. A hint of a smile sits on his face as he watches the bird. When he sees a buzzard, he thinks about the wonderful things the bird can see. I think about the carcass that bird’s about to eat. Ethan deserves to survive. It’s my job to make sure he does.
    When we find the first snare, it’s empty. I tuck my hands in my pockets and hide my disappointment when Ethan looks from me to the empty wire loop. In my pockets my hands clench and unclench.
    The next snare delivers. A fat brown gopher lies strangled to death in my wire. Its paws have dug four deep ruts in the dry earth. Its tongue lolls to one side of his matted brown muzzle. I loosen the wire and lift him up by his hind legs.
    “Gotcha,” I say to the gopher. Then I turn to Ethan. “I’m gonna reset this snare. Go check the one over the hill and yell if we got something.”
    Ethan nods and clomps over the rise.
    The snare wire is kinked and it takes me a while to straighten the noose and secure it on the game trail again. Just as I’m driving the anchor back into the ground, I hear a scream.
    I sit bolt upright. “Ethan!”
    I drop everything and run. The rise of the hill blocks my view, but then I hear a sound that sends gooseflesh over my arms—the distinct growl of a predator.
    “No,” I whisper as I sprint up the hill and dig out my hunting knife. How could I have let him go alone?
    When I reach the crest, I spot Ethan. Four