"Move her," the thug snarled as hands reached for the cot—then I heaved a tree trunk.
"Get your hands off!" I shouted, and the trunk swung like a battering bar.
The leader's laugh cut out when the wood hit his ribs. He stumbled back and smacked his shoulder into the brick wall of our courtyard. The alley filled with the sound of men swearing and a kid shrieking.
"Who the hell—" Bear Murray tried to push through the circle of men, eyes wide, pride folding into pain.
"Hands off my family," I said again, voice raw. My knuckles throbbed from the grip. The world narrowed to the shape of the trunk and the space I owned between the cot and the gate.
Rita was on the ground, clutching her side. Her shawl was torn. One of Bear's goons had just shoved her for answering him back about ration coupons. She tried to crawl up and a boot found her shoulder.
"Rita!" Dylan yelled. He stood in front of Rita, little knees wobbling, eyes big and steady like he meant business.
"Get him out of here," Bear barked. "He belongs with the rest of his kind."
"Your kind?" I slammed the wood down again and Bear jerked. He looked at me like something unexpected had lodged in his throat.
"You don't touch women here," Ximena shouted from a doorway, and a few neighbors pressed outward, threading between stalls and leaning over low fences. They held jars and
