Clara Vance lay curled in the dirt. Barefoot. Bruised. Her frail body folded into itself like she had tried to become small enough for the world to stop hurting her.
Her lips were cracked white. One arm was bent wrong. Dirt clung to her nightgown. Her eyes fluttered, but she did not speak.
Nobody moved. Not the pines. Not the insects. Not the old clay pit that had swallowed my mother and waited.
I slid down so fast the dirt tore my palms open. It took three minutes to lift her, but it felt like three years. She made one small sound when I touched her shoulder, and I thought my heart would split.
“It’s me,” I said. “Mom, it’s Marcus. I’ve got you.”
At the county ER, the doctor’s face told me before his words did:
Extreme dehydration.
Fractured collarbone.
Concussion.
Severe bruising.
And her lab work showed she had been trapped in that ditch for at least three days.
