But it’s easier now.

Down there in the cold.

Now, I have the handy dandy stress ball, a pen and paper, and the MP3 player I stole from Skinny—or was it Ugly?—all because they looked at my girl the wrong way.

At least her hair isn’t so ridiculously wonky anymore. She means well and tries her damn best, but I usually end up redoing it for her before we walk to school. If not, I just can’t stop staring at it in all its chaos.

Every morning, I hold my breath to see if she tried braiding it because, unless she brings a hairbrush, there’s no way I can salvage it.

She frowns at me, and I frown, too.

“Maybe you should have talked to him before you punched him,” Pigtails says.

If she ever knew I still call her Pigtails in my head, she’d probably be debating whether to disown me or sit in the corner and cry. The last time I did, her bottom lip quivered—God, I hate it when it quivers—and she started getting upset, saying that I thought she was a pig.

I shrug, grinning. “No point wasting time. I was cutting to the chase.”

She carefully dabs the wound again. In my entire life, Bella is the only person who has tended to my wounds without being paid to do it. “There are two sides to every story, Mickey. What you did was grievous bodily assault.” Her r’s come out nice and clear.

Bella’s been watching Law & Order for the past month, and now she thinks she wants to be a defense attorney—which might actually come in handy for me, so it’s all a go from my point of view.

I catch sight of her earring and internally wince. I’m unsure if she still thinks about losing her mother’s earrings, but I do. Every day.

“Your side is the only one that counts.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure if that’s how justice works.”

I can’t help it; I roll my eyes too. “Shut up, you’re, like, eleven.”

“No, I’m twelve, thank you very much.” She places her hands on her hips. “Twelve years and three months,” she adds matter-of-factly.

I put no effort into hiding my victorious grin. Pointing out her age always gets a rise out of her. She’s twelve going on twenty with how much she tries to mother everyone.

Then the first sign starts; the loud wheeze in her breath from the change in season. Bella clears her throat to hide it, but I narrow my eyes at her. Then, as the seconds pass, she turns to the side and lets out a series of earth-shattering coughs.

Reaching for my bag, I tug it onto my lap and ignore the pain from my busted knuckles. I rummage around the front pocket until I find what I need, all while Bella wheezes between coughs.

I sigh as I hold out the inhaler. Her delicate fingers wrap around it without hesitation, struggling to suck it in between breaths. She never remembers to take it like she’s meant to. And it’s fall, the worst time of year for her.

“You lied to me.” I explicitly asked her this morning, “Did you take your inhaler?”

Do you know what her response was? A couple of flutters of her eyelashes and a bashful, “Mmhmm.”

Typical.

I’m not falling for that shit next time.

“Do I need to start forcing you to take it?”

Her eyes water from all her coughing as she moves to sit beside me, attempting to calm her breathing. I take the inhaler from her and stuff it back in my bag.

She shakes her head softly. Even without the inhaler, she would have gotten through the worst of the coughs within a few minutes. Still, then she’d spend the rest of the day wheezing until she took the medication. It seems to be getting worse the older she gets.

“Then you better start taking it,” I scold.

She tries to play it off by resuming her nursing duties. “It was just the one time.”

“This week,” I add.

If no one reminded her, this girl would forget to feed herself.

She scrunches her nose. “It tastes bad.”

“Don’t care. You’re going to start taking it properly. Promise me.” I know she won’t. Isabella Garcia doesn’t make promises she can’t keep. I can see in her eyes that she’s itching to change the subject because this has been a point of real contention for a while.

“Sarai la mia morte.”

You’re going to be the death of me.

I don’t remember much of the language, but Bella is trying to learn it so we can “speak behind the adults’ backs,” even though her Spanish is better than my Italian. And I don’t know any Spanish beyond gracias, and me llamo Roman.

“Don’t forget, I’m going to visit Mitchell’s mother this weekend,” Bella says suddenly as she plasters on a band-aid.

I groan, but I’m unsure whether it’s from the pressure of the band-aid on my cut or from her reminder. I hate when she goes, because she’s all alone with no one to watch over her. What if Mitchell, her new foster dad, tries to hit her? He hasn’t done it before, but it doesn’t mean he won’t start. Or, what if she has a nightmare, can’t find Mickey Mouse, or has a panic attack again? Or if she forgets her inhaler?

“Why do you have to go?”

It’s not like anyone in her foster family has given a shit about inviting her to their family gatherings. At least Mitchell’s place is better than the hellhole she was in when we first met.

When Margaret heard all about how she wouldn’t get proper lunches—and I may have mentioned a bruise or two—the state swooped in to save the little girl with bright brown eyes. Apparently, she didn’t have “attention seeker” in her file, so they believed every word she said and got her out of there.

Mitchell is an asshole, but at least he gives her three meals a day and enough blankets to keep her warm—not like the last house.

Bella pinches her lip between her teeth, then shrugs like it isn’t something to worry about. Probably more for my sake than hers. “They told me I have to go. I don’t make the rules, I just follow the orders.”

“But you should try—"

“Mickey,” she says calmly, eying the stress ball that looks a hair away from exploding. “I’ll be back at school on Monday, and you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

She’s wrong. I’ll notice.

I always notice.

Unless I’m in the basement, I’m loitering on her lawn, or terrorizing the neighborhood, which she isn’t really a fan of.

If it were up to her, she’d have us both curled up with a book. She’s been doing this annoying thing where she likes going to the park to sit down and read, but I hate it. There aren’t enough noises, and I like hearing the sound of her voice.

“Isa,” Mitchell yells from somewhere inside the house. “Get inside. Set the table up for dinner.”

Pigtails steps back with a slight shake of her head, and I jump to my feet. Two days. She’s gone for two days. That’s nothing. That’s like… Like… Forty-eight hours.

I can count down or something.

I move forward to give her a hug, but the rejection smacks me in the face as she turns and runs up the stairs, avoiding my touch entirely. I know she wouldn’t have done it on purpose, I just guessed—well, hoped she’d be a little less scared now.

We never used to be able to high-five without one or both of us flinching, so when she hugged me for the very first time two years ago on my birthday, it was like I saw the light. Then, when she hugged me last year, I’m pretty sure I understood why people find religion.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been hugged—that I can remember—and Bella takes both places. I wasn’t even sure I liked it at first. It felt so claustrophobic, and all her hair was shoved in my nose and mouth, but the second those small arms of hers wrapped around my waist, everything stilled. The noises, the need to move, to burn energy by taking it out on another person. She is the only one who has ever been able to calm me. Sometimes she does this special little laugh, and the world quietens, but it doesn’t go away forever. Until she hugged me, and for once, everything felt normal.