In European history, they had been reading about the Hundred Years’ War. England and France had nothing on Polly’s mother and stepfathers; they’d been going at it as long as she could remember. The only thing that changed was the stepfathers’ names. Used to be, they had married her mother, but the last two or three hadn’t bothered.

Why Hilda kept dragging men home was a mystery. It wasn’t like they brought money or glamour. Stinky shoes, hairy backs, and hard fists were more like it. Polly was determined never to get married. “No men,” she yelled as somebody crashed against the door.

Except to have kids, she amended silently. More than anything, she wanted kids to protect, love, and teach; to keep safe and happy.

Another spate of profanity scattered her thoughts. It was getting cold. And now she had to go to the bathroom.

A couple times when it looked like somebody was going to kill somebody, she’d called the cops, but they just hauled Hilda or the boyfriend in, and when they came back it was worse than before. “Get over it!” she yelled in the general direction of her left shoulder. “Kill each other or make up. I got to pee! God!” She slumped back against the trailer.

This was the third time this week she’d come home to World War III. When the weather was nice it was easier to deal with. She could go sit in the woods if it wasn’t too buggy, or walk down to Prentiss’s tiny all-purpose corner store and get a milkshake if she had the money or kill time leafing through the magazines on the rack if she didn’t. Mrs. Chandler didn’t mind, as long as there were no other kids around.