Chapter 2
RETH
Flashback
My father’s hand is big and rough around the edges, but I hold on tight anyway, even when my legs have to run to keep up.
The hallway is too long and too shiny, and every time my sneakers squeak, I worry someone will tell me to be quiet.
But my father just keeps walking, slow enough that I don’t fall behind.
“Almost there,” he says again, voice low like he’s telling me a secret. “She can’t wait to meet you.”
We walk up to a yellow door, and when he pushes it open, the air changes. It gets softer. Sweeter. Like someone baked cookies in here even though hospitals aren’t supposed to smell like cookies.
My mother is sitting up in the bed by the window, hair messy the way it gets when she’s been awake all night.
But she smiles when she sees me—the real smile, the one that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle and her whole face look like sunshine breaking through clouds.
The kind that says I’m exactly who she wanted to see.
“Come here,” she whispers, patting the spot beside her. “Come meet her.”
My heart does a funny flip. I walk slowly, carefully, because the floor feels different under my feet, like I’ve stepped into a bubble where time moves slower. My father’s hand slips away, and suddenly it’s just me and the bed and the tiny bundle in my mother’s arms.
She’s so small.
Smaller than my favorite stuffed bear. Smaller than the doll I saw at the store once that my mother said was too delicate for little boys to play with.
Her face is all wrinkled and red, like she just finished crying about something important, and one tiny fist is pressed to her cheek like she’s already mad at the world for being so loud.
“You can hold her,” my mother says.
I freeze. “What if I drop her?”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
She looks at me the way she does when she’s about to tell me something that matters more than bedtime or vegetables. “Because you’re not the kind of boy who drops the things he’s been trusted with.”
My father helps me climb onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips a little. My mother carefully moves my arms—elbow here, hand here, support her head just like that—and then the baby is in my lap.
She weighs almost nothing. But at the same time, she weighs everything.
Her eyes open. They’re dark and brand new, like the night sky right after the stars come out.
She can’t really see me yet, but she looks toward my face anyway, and something inside my chest squeezes really hard.
It’s warm and scary and good all at once, like when you find something you didn’t know you were missing.
“Nazareth.”
I look up. My mother is watching me with shiny eyes, the kind that look like she might cry but in a happy way.
“Do you know what your name means?”
I shake my head, too afraid to speak in case I mess up holding the baby.
She reaches out and brushes the hair off my forehead, her fingers soft and warm. “Guardian,” she says, voice quiet like a secret just for me. “The one who keeps watch. The one who stands between the people he loves and the things that want to hurt them.”
I look back down at my sister.
Her little fist opens, fingers spreading like she’s reaching for something she knows should be there. Her mouth makes a tiny sound, not quite a cry, more like she’s testing the air. She’s so new. So soft. So… ours?
“That’s your job now,” my mother whispers. “You keep her safe, Nazareth. Always.”
My throat feels funny, like I swallowed a marble. I stare at her tiny face, at the way her nose wrinkles when she breathes, at the little dark lashes against her cheeks. She doesn’t know anything bad yet. She doesn’t know the world can be loud or mean or cold. She only knows us. She only knows me.
I lean down a little, close enough that I can smell her—milk and something sweet like the hospital blanket—and I whisper so only she can hear.
“I’ll keep you safe. I promise. Even if it’s scary. Even if I have to be really brave. I won’t let anything hurt you. Ever.”
Her fingers twitch, like she heard me. Like she believes me already.
My eyes get hot and blurry. I blink fast because big boys don’t cry in hospitals, but it’s hard when your chest feels too full and too empty at the same time.
This tiny person is depending on me. Me.
The boy who still needs help tying his shoes sometimes.
The boy who hides under the bed when thunder comes.
But she doesn’t know that. She just looks at me like I’m already big enough. Like I’m already her guardian.
I swallow hard and nod, even though no one asked me a question.
“Okay,” I say so my mother and father can hear it. My voice wobbles, but I don’t care. “I’ll take care of her. I’ll watch over her every day. When she’s scared, I’ll hold her hand. When she cries, I’ll make her laugh. And if anyone tries to hurt her… I’ll stop them.”
My father makes a soft sound, like he’s proud. My mother’s hand rests on my shoulder, warm and steady.
My sister yawns, a tiny pink mouth opening wide, and then she settles against my arm like she already knows she’s safe.
Something inside me clicks into place. Like a lock I didn’t know was there. Like the world just gave me the most important job it had, and I’m only six, but I already know I’ll never quit it.
“What’s her name?” I ask my mother without looking at her.
“Mary. Mary Elizabeth Hale.”
I lean down again, pressing the lightest kiss to her fuzzy head. “Hi, Mary,” I whisper. “I’m Nazareth. And I’m gonna be your guardian forever.”
Her tiny fingers curl around the edge of my shirt, holding on like she already trusts me with everything she has.
And right there, in that yellow hospital room that smells like cookies and new beginnings, my chest fills up so full in the best way.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I don’t know about the dark things waiting outside these walls.
But I know this. She’s here, and I’ll protect her. And for the first time in my whole six years, I feel like my name finally makes sense.
Guardian.
I’ll be that for her.
No matter what.