Jack squeezes my hand, drawing my attention away from the path we’re taking through the forest and back to him. “You said you wanted to talk, and you haven’t spoken a word since you dragged me from the house, which means it’s something you don’t want to tell me.”
I try to work out the best way I can tell him about someone—probably his father, but most likely Faith—trying to kill me before breakfast. “No, I don’t.”
“Is it about Faith? Or my da? Did he—”
“No.” I pause. “Well, kind of. Your dad doesn’t like me.”
That’s kind of an understatement, but true.
“My father doesn’t like anyone,” Mack admits.
“I think the way he feels about me goes beyond dislike.”
Mack sighs. “You’re probably right. My mom—”
It’s my turn to squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I
