The scene was so familiar that a tremor ran through my body. My ribs—bones snapped years ago—throbbed with phantom agony.
"Long time no see, sweetheart. When are you paying up for this month?"
My face drained of color. "I paid off the entire debt. I don't owe you anything."
The gang leader picked his teeth with a toothpick and spat on the floor. "If I say you owe, then you owe. Don't want to pay? Fine." He glanced down. "I wonder how many hits your brother's pile of rotten bones can take."
He tapped the iron rod against Jonathan's spine.
"Hazel, run!" Jonathan cried out. "I'm the one who dragged you down. Forget about me! I'm just a cripple—if they beat me to death, then so be it. I won't be a burden to you anymore!"
The exact same words. I had heard this script countless times over the last five years.
Exhaustion weighed on me like lead. I looked at the room full of thugs, then down at Jonathan. He looked pathetic, sprawled in the dirt, yet his eyes were clear. Alert.
How had I not seen it before?
It was laughable that I only realized it now. These men had threatened violence a thousand times, yet they had never actually laid a finger on Jonathan.