Free Out of Darkness by Ashley Hope Pérez

her. Cari crawled back under the covers and snuggled close.
    â€œI like that you still call me that,” Cari whispered. “ Cariño . That’s another good thing.”
    â€œJust when it’s us, okay? Go to sleep now.”
    â€œAnd Wash,” Cari said. “That makes tres . Three good things.”
    Naomi stroked Cari’s hair. Even with her eyes closed, she knew the exact moment when her sister fell sleep, knew it by the little sigh that came just before her breathing turned steady.
    Naomi held her sister and drifted toward sleep. She should have known it could go bad, what with the prayer and Henry’s hand on hers, and inside that the dark kernel of before. At first the dreams were just numbers and words and bits from science class. Then came something about her Spanish teacher, whose black button eyes stared from under her prickly gray eyebrows. In the dream, she spoke to Naomi in accented Spanish without moving her mouth. Then she rode a bicycle ahead of her, leading her toward a door at the end of a long hall that was at the same time the door to the bathroom in the little Houston house where Naomi had lived with Henry and her mother. Then pink tile and his hand on the lock and Just like you’re making butter. That’s all you have to do. You can keep your mama safe and her heart in her throat and no words coming out.
    She awoke trembling and terrified of finding him there. Naomi leaned her face against Cari. The nape of Cari’s neck was warm and dry, and Naomi thought hard about staying safe, staying just this side of sleep where there would be no dreams. She lay listening to the rain slap against the roof until it began to sound like nope nope nope nope nope , and she took some comfort in it.
    â—Š ◊ ◊
    Escuse, aye juan tu fin amen namad Henry. Es mi papa.
    That was how Naomi’s brain, still keyed to Spanish, stored the words her mother sent her with when the second disaster came just after Naomi’s seventh birthday.
    For the record, Estella had actually said, “ Vete a buscar a Henry en el icehouse. Di , ‘Excuse me, I want to find a man named Henry. He is my papa.’”
    Under normal circumstances, Naomi would have protested that Henry was not her father and that she didn’t know the way to the icehouse. But the situation was not normal; her mother spoke to her from the floor of the bathroom, where she crouched, hand up under her dress. Already, bright red drops stood out on the pink tile. She’d called Naomi back a moment later, telling her to bring a towel. She couldn’t ruin another dress, she said.
    Naomi pressed a towel into her mother’s hand. Then she turned and ran, out of the house, down the steps, and along the cracked sidewalk. She ran until by stupid luck she found herself staring at a wood plank sign printed with the words White Oak Icehouse.
    It was not a house at all, nor was it made of ice. It was just a sloping building covered with corrugated tin panels hammered together. It had a regular door on one side and a big garage door on the other. The garage door was open, and inside Naomi could see shelves with cans of food and tin signs advertising Lucky Strikes and Chesterfields. A small shack was attached to the side of the building, and a few picnic tables and benches were scattered under the shade of two elm trees.
    Three men sat together at one of the picnic tables, but Henry was not among them.
    There was a heavy-breasted woman behind a bar in the garage and a lean yellow dog who lay drowsing by a pan of water, his ears twitching in sleep.
    Naomi moved toward the woman. As she walked, she repeated the words her mother had given her to say. Escuse, aye juan tu fin amen namad Henry ... Escuse, aye juan tu fin ... Escuse...Escuse...
    â€œWhat ya need, honey?” the woman asked. Her hair was the color of carrots and her teeth were very bad. She was wiping the metal counter with a limp rag.
    Naomi knew she