"I'm not an asshole and she isn't property. I can't own her."

"If that's what you want." He raises an eyebrow. "She's cute. In a couple years she'll be hot. Guys will be all over her. I'm just trying to help out."

I think about what he's saying, and he makes a good point. Only he's wrong—she's hot now. "Fine. I claim her. She's mine."

His smirk is instant. "You can't own someone, you pig. She isn't property."

I laugh. "Fuck you."

Jake struts over to us. "Ya reckon that new kid Dylan can hang out with us this arvo? He seems like a top bloke."

Logan's gaze moves to me, confusion clear on his face. I shrug. He lets out a chuckle before gripping both of Jake's shoulders and shaking him gently. He looks him right in the eye, speaking slowly and clearly. "I have no idea what the fuck you just said."

***

I don't bother knocking when I get to her house, and I'm glad I don't because no one would have heard me over her screaming. "What's wrong with him?" she shouts. I drop my backpack and run to the kitchen. The boys are standing above her, the younger ones are crying... and so is she. Hysterically. She's holding the baby in her arm, with one hand touching his forehead.

I drop to my knees next to her. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," she sobs, trying to level her breathing. "He won't stop crying and he's burning up. I got home from school and my aunt had to rush out. He was fine, and then he wasn't. He hasn't stopped crying."

"Have you called your aunt?" My voice is strained. I'm scared. I want to help her but I don't know how.

"Get me the phone," she yells at the boys.

Where is her dad?

Leo hands her the phone. Her fingers make quick work of pushing the right buttons. She holds it to her ear while her eyes move to mine. "What did I do to him?" she whispers.

My heart breaks. "It's not your fault," I tell her, but she's already speaking hysterically into the phone. "Aunt Leslee, something's wrong with Lachlan." She can barely speak through her cries. She glances up, taking a look at each of the boys, and then me. "Help," she says. And I know it takes everything in her to ask for it.

I take the phone from her when she's done and dial 911. I try to stay calm as I tell them as much as I know—which is fuck all. Then I hang up and call my mom. "I need you to come to Lucy's. Now." She doesn't waste time asking questions—just tells me she's on her way.

Lucy hasn't stopped crying, and neither has the baby. The older boys are comforting the younger ones as much as possible, but I can see in their faces that they're just as afraid as we all are.

Where the fuck is her dad? And now I'm pissed. Because it's not on Lucy to have to carry all this on her own. "Stay with her," I tell Lucas, the oldest at twelve. He nods, his eyes already filled with tears.

I march up the stairs. Each step, my anger builds. By the time I'm at his bedroom door, rage so strong fills me that I can't even think. I just kick the door and watch it forcefully smack into the wall behind it. "Get up you asshole." I lean over his passed out form, ignoring the stench of booze. "Your family needs you." I shake him as hard as possible, but all he does is moan in response.

My gaze darts around the room, looking for something to make him get up. There's nothing here, just half empty bottles of whiskey. I take the nearest one and run to his bathroom. Then I empty it and fill it with water. I walk back and stand over his pathetic state and proceed to empty it all over his head. He jerks up. "Kathy," he moans. And for a split second I actually feel sorry for him.

"Get downstairs," I grind out. "Your baby's sick and Lucy needs you."

"Lucy?"

"Lucy. You know... your only daughter. The one that's been keeping this family together since you checked out."

He sits on the edge of the bed and rubs his palm down the side of his face.

"NOW!" I yell. And it seems like he finally comprehends the seriousness of what's happening.

He rushes down the stairs, tripping on the last step. I help him up and push him toward the kitchen. Nothing's changed in the time I was gone.

The front door bursts open. A moment later it feels like a million people fill the kitchen—the paramedics, my mom, and her aunt.

"Lucy." Her dad sways on his feet, watching her crying on the floor. He hasn't even gone to her yet. My fists ball—it's the only way I can keep my rage in check. A tear falls from his eye. "What did you do, Lucy?"

His words alone release the rage and I punch him.

I can tell that it hurts me more than it hurts him because he barely flinches.

I hate him.

Mom yells my name and the boys start shouting.

Lucy screams.

"She didn't do shit," I yell up at his surprised face. "She's done nothing but almost kill herself looking after YOUR kids. She's fifteen! She doesn't need this shit."

"STOP IT!" she shouts. "Please, Cameron! Stop!"

I stop.

We all do.

Even the baby—who's now in the hands of the paramedic. "Sweetheart," she says to Lucy, throwing a hand out to help her on her feet. "He's just teething. It's painful for them. It's normal for them to get a fever... for them to cry. It's all normal." She glares up at Lucy's dad, but her words are meant for Lucy. "You didn't do anything wrong."