"Mommy's gone!" I snapped awake to Milo's small fist slamming my ribs. "Mommy!" he shouted again, voice rough with sleep and hunger. I pushed up on one elbow. The kitchen light was a joke—bare bulb swinging on a frayed wire. A pan sat crusted on the stove. Empty jars ratted when the door banged outside. Lulu was wailing somewhere behind a blanket like a siren. Pip chewed his thumbnail and watched me like a tiny judge. "Where's your jacket?" I asked, because asking anything felt better than admitting I didn't know where the last of the water had gone. Milo pointed at the cupboard. "We drank it. The little bottle. Pip said it was only for me." Pip said, "I didn't know it was only for Milo. I thought—" "You thought wrong," Milo said, and then looked at me like I could fix wrongs. I sat up, listening. People were always shouting in the lane by noon. Maureen Miller's voice cut through the thin walls like a saw. "Let them starve, Ivy! You left the town when help came!" "Maureen!" Pip mouthed. He hated her more than the drought. He learned manners early. I swallowed the word I wanted to throw back and moved. The house smelled like damp and the sour sleep of leftovers. My hands were steady even when the rest of me wasn't. I checked the children fast: Milo's face had that tightness adults get when they're