Noah's POV
Mama's on the ground.
Shaking.
Why's she shaking like that?
Why's her skin turning purple?
I crawl over to her. My knees scrape on the tar-rough ground, my palms sting, but I don't care. She's making this sound—like a scream stuck halfway in her throat.
I grab her hand. It's too cold. Mama's never cold.
"Mama?" I whisper.
She screams.
Loud. Loud enough to break the sky.
I flinch so hard I wet myself. I hate that I do, but I can't stop it. My whole body's shaking now. I scoot closer. Her eyes are wide and her mouth opens like she wants to say something but nothing comes out except spit and noise and pain.
"Mama! Mama, please!" I beg.
She was shot. She's going to die. That's what happens when people get shot, right? They die and their blood goes everywhere. But there's no blood on the ground. Mama's just in pain. Pure, twisty, awful pain that makes her body thrash and her fingers twitch like spiders.
