Page 183 of The Art of Breathing (The Seafare Chronicles 3)

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I turn back to her. “There’s more than one way to hurt a kid,” I say, my voice hard. “Abuse doesn’t have to be physical. You have a chance, here. A real chance.”

“It’s none of your business.”

I smile, but it takes all I have. “You’re wrong about that. Remember what I said. You can still make a difference. It’s too late for us. I know that now. But not for her. Remember that before she’s gone too. Good-bye, Julie.”

And I leave my mother there, standing in that kitchen: The smell of smoke untouched by the breeze from the window. The faded linoleum. The mug of Jack, ice cubes melted. I leave it all behind. The photos of faraway places along the wall. This place. I leave it all behind.

But not Izzie. Never Izzie.

I close the front door behind me.

I breathe in. Hold for three. Out. Hold for three. It works. It works. I know it works.

I take a step and the ground shakes beneath me. All my strength is leaving. I need to get out of here before it breaks.

But still I stop. When I reach the fence, I stop. One last look back.

My mother’s at the window. She watches me. Our eyes lock and there we stay. I don’t know how long. Eventually, she backs away slowly until I can’t see her anymore.

I turn to leave as I struggle to breathe.

It should be over.

What is this?

I’ve done what I came to do.

Why is the ground shaking?

Why can’t I breathe?

I need….

This is over. This should all be over.

I need—

“Fuck,” I croak as I bend over. “Ah, God. Ah shit.”

I need you, I think. I need you with me. I need you here. I need you so bad.

And then I think I must be magic, I must be so much magic, because big hands wrap themselves around me and pull me close. I hear a rumble that sounds like thunder from above, but I know that sound as it says my name. I know that broken voice.

“Tyson,” he says.

“How?” I gasp. The panic in my head and chest rises, clawing me, pulling me down. It hurts. Everything hurts.

“Cab,” Dom says. “I couldn’t let you b

e here alone.”

“I c-c-can’t b-breathe—”

“Hush,” he says. “Listen.”

I hush. I listen.

“Breathe.”

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