A Chance to Breathe

Chapter I

I sit in the police station, the cold plastic chair digging into my back. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, too sterile, making everything feel unreal. It's like I'm stuck in a bad dream, and no matter how hard I try, I can't wake up. I grip Neal tighter, my arms wrapped around his small, warm body. His little fists curl around my shirt, and I can feel his breath on my neck, soft and steady, like he doesn't know the world just fell apart. Or maybe he does. Maybe he knows better than I do.

The room smells like stale coffee and something else—desperation, maybe. I can't make myself look at the officers; I can't even look at the officer who's been trying to talk to me for the last half hour. His voice is muffled, like he's speaking underwater, and my head keeps swimming. I feel like I'm going to pass out or puke or both. I just keep staring at the smudge on the floor, a stubborn stain that refuses to come clean.

Neal lets out a soft whimper, and I rock him gently, trying to soothe him, trying to soothe myself. I close my eyes, but all I see is the image burned into my mind: Mom sprawled on the couch, her eyes open but seeing nothing. Empty. Dead. The needle still in her arm, her body lifeless, while Neal screamed from his crib. I can still hear it, that horrible, high-pitched cry that cut through me like glass. I had run home from track practice, excited to tell her I beat my best time, only to find that she wasn't there. Not really. Not anymore.

I shake my head, trying to clear it, but the memories keep crashing back, relentless. The rush of fear, the way my hands shook as I reached for Neal, my heart racing so fast I thought it would explode. I called 911, but it was too late. For her, anyway. Not for us. No, for us, it's never too late to suffer a little more.

"Emma?" The officer's voice breaks through, tentative, like he's afraid of startling me. I look up, meeting his eyes for the first time. There's something in them—pity, maybe. I hate it. I don't need his pity. I don't need anyone's pity. I just need Neal.

"Can you hear me?" he asks, and I nod, though it feels like my head is detached from my body. I don't want to be here. I want to run, but there's nowhere to go. "The child protection service will be here soon, okay? They're going to take care of you and Neal."

His words are like static in my ears. Take care of you. Yeah, right. I've heard that before. All those promises, all those lies. I look down at Neal, his big blue eyes blinking up at me, trusting me, needing me. I've taken care of him since the day he was born. I was the one who fed him, changed him, kept him safe when Mom couldn't. I was the one who made sure he was okay when everything else was falling apart. I'm not perfect, but I'm all he's got.

"They can't take him," I whisper, my voice cracking. It's like I'm on the verge of shattering, barely holding myself together. "They can't take him away from me."

The man sighs, running a hand through his hair. He looks tired, older than he did when he pulled us out of that apartment. "Emma, I know this is hard, but—"

"No!" I snap, my voice louder than I intended. Neal flinches, and I immediately feel guilty, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I'm sorry, buddy," I murmur to him, rocking him gently. "I'm sorry."

The door opens, and a woman walks in, her face kind but businesslike. She introduces herself as someone from child services, but I don't catch her name. I don't care. She's here to take him. I can feel it, a sick twist in my stomach. She kneels in front of me, her eyes soft as she looks at Neal.

"Hi, Emma," she says, her voice gentle, like I'm some kind of wounded animal. "I'm here to help. We've found a wonderful family for Neal. They're so excited to meet him."

I tighten my grip on Neal, holding him closer. "No," I say, my voice small, panicked. "He's mine. You can't—"

"Emma, you're almost eighteen," she says softly. "You'll be aging out of the system soon, and it's not ideal for Neal. He needs stability, a home."