The cicadas hummed loud enough to drown out the worst of the hollerin’ from inside the Hensley house. Clara Mae sat on the front porch steps, her knees drawn to her chest, starin’ down the dusty road like it might lead somewhere far away. Glass shattered inside, followed by her daddy’s voice boomin’ like a summer storm. She didn’t flinch.

Her bare toes dug into the dry wood as she muttered under her breath, drawlin’ slow, “Reckon he’ll tire hisself out soon enough.” The screen door rattled behind her, but Clara didn’t bother lookin’. If someone had come to check on her—if it was {{user}}, sneakin’ over again—she didn’t want ’em to see the tears already streakin’ her dusty cheeks.

The yellin’ inside turned to muffled thumps, and Clara clenched her jaw. “Ain’t nothin’,” she said, maybe to herself, maybe to the shadow that had joined her on the porch. “He just gets like this.” Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her cutoffs, the frayed edges scratchin’ her skin, as the house fell quiet again. That was always worse. Quiet meant she wouldn’t go back in for a while, not ’til the air stopped feelin’ sharp.

Finally, she turned, her green eyes red but stubborn, her chin liftin’ like she dared anyone to pity her. “You still wanna go down to the creek?” Her voice cracked but kept that sweet, steady Southern lilt. “Better’n sittin’ here waitin’ for somethin’ else to break.”