The leather seat of the car was cool against Estelle's legs, but panic was a hot coal in her chest.

Buster.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. She wasn't safe. She was leaving. And she was leaving him behind.

"No," Estelle whispered.

Eleanor was stroking her hair. "It's okay, baby, we're going home."

"No!" Estelle screamed. The sound tore from her throat, raw and sudden.

She shoved Eleanor away. The woman looked shocked, her hands hovering in the empty air. Estelle didn't wait. She scrambled over the expensive upholstery, fumbling for the door handle.

"Wait! Elara!" Arthur shouted.

Estelle tumbled out of the car, her knees hitting the gravel. She didn't feel the pain. She scrambled up and ran back toward the rotting trailer.

"Secure the target!" a bodyguard yelled.

Estelle ignored them. She threw herself onto the dirt belly-first, sliding under the rusted chassis of the trailer. It smelled of oil and dead rats.

"Buster!" she hissed into the darkness. She made a sound, a low, clicking whistle in the back of her throat. Click-whoosh.

From the shadows, a low growl answered.

A head appeared. It was a block of muscle and scars. Buster. A pitbull mix with one ear torn in half and eyes that had seen too many fights. He dragged himself toward her, whining low in his throat.

"Come on," she whispered, grabbing his thick collar.

"Jesus Christ!"

Estelle looked back. A bodyguard had his weapon drawn. The gun was black and matte and pointed right at Buster's head. A laser dot danced on the dog's nose.

"Drop the weapon!" Arthur roared from behind the wall of suits.

Estelle didn't think. She moved.

She threw her body over the dog. She wrapped her thin arms around his massive, muscular neck and buried her face in his fur. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Don't shoot him!" she screamed into the dog's shoulder. "Shoot me! Don't shoot him!"

Buster didn't attack. He froze. Under her grip, his muscles were rock hard, vibrating with the urge to kill, but he didn't move. He pressed his wet nose into her neck.

Silence stretched. A long, elastic moment where the only sound was Estelle's ragged breathing.

Then, a soft mew.

A black cat, missing an eye, slinked out from a hole in the trailer floor. Shadow. He hopped onto Estelle's back, arched his spine, and hissed at the men with guns.

"Stand down," Arthur's voice was shaking. "Everyone, stand down."

Estelle opened one eye. The red dot was gone.

Arthur was standing five feet away. He was looking at her-curled in the dirt, shielding a monster of a dog and a broken cat-with an expression that looked like his heart was being ripped out through his ribs.

"They're... they're my friends," Estelle stammered, her voice small. "They're the only ones who don't hit me."

A sob broke from Eleanor, loud and wet.

A boy was watching from the window of the second SUV. He looked about fifteen. Harlen. He had headphones around his neck and a look of pure disgust on his face.

"We're taking the zoo?" he shouted through the glass. "Are you kidding me? That thing is a killer."

Eleanor walked past the guards. She ignored the mud ruining her shoes. She knelt in the dirt next to Estelle. She didn't look at the dog's teeth. She looked at Estelle.

"If you love them," Eleanor said, her voice fierce, "then they are Bridges. And no one hurts a Bridges."

Estelle's grip on the collar loosened. "Really?"

"Really." Arthur snapped his fingers. "Winston. Get the transport vehicle. The animals ride with us."

Estelle sat up. She put a hand on Buster's head. She whispered a single word, a sound that was barely a breath. Calm.

The dog's posture changed instantly. The hackles smoothed. The growl died. He sat, looking at her with adoration.

Arthur watched the interaction, his eyes narrowing slightly. He saw the bond. The raw, desperate connection between a broken child and the only creature that had ever shown her loyalty. It was a purity he hadn't seen in years.

As the handlers moved in with cages, a lawyer in a gray suit began moving through the crowd of neighbors, handing out thick white envelopes. Hush money.

Mrs. Miller stepped forward, wiping her hands on her dress, a greedy smile plastering her face. "I assume there's something for the caregiver? I fed that mutt, you know."

Buster lunged. He didn't bark. He just snapped his jaws, the sound like a bear trap closing, inches from Mrs. Miller's leg.

Mrs. Miller shrieked and fell backward into a puddle of oil.

Estelle didn't pull the dog back. She just watched.

The lawyer walked right past Mrs. Miller. He didn't even look at her. He handed the envelope to the person behind her.

"Hey!" Mrs. Miller yelled. "Where's mine?"

The lawyer stopped. He turned. "Mr. Bridges said the dog's judgment is final."

Estelle climbed into the car, pulling her knees to her chest. She watched Mrs. Miller sitting in the mud, empty-handed, as the tinted window rolled up, sealing the world away.

The inside of the Lincoln was a different planet.

It smelled of sterilized air and leather. The silence was thick, insulated from the world by layers of bulletproof glass and steel. Estelle sat on the edge of the seat, trying to hover so her dirty jeans didn't touch the beige leather.

Across from her, the boy-Harlen-was staring.

He wasn't just looking; he was dissecting. He wore a hoodie that probably cost more than Mrs. Miller's entire trailer. He had a Nintendo Switch in his hands, but he wasn't playing.

"She smells," Harlen said.

He didn't whisper. He said it flatly, like he was commenting on the weather. "Like rot and wet dog. Can we put the partition up?"

Estelle felt the heat rush to her face. She tried to shrink, pulling her arms tight against her sides. She knew she smelled. She had been dragging trash in the sun all morning.

"Harlen," Arthur warned. He was sitting next to the driver, but his eyes were glued to the rearview mirror, watching Estelle. "That is enough."

"What? It's true," Harlen muttered, slouching. "She's gross."

Eleanor opened a small refrigerator built into the side of the car. She pulled out a glass bottle. Evian. The glass was frosted with condensation.

"Here, sweetie," she said softly.

Estelle stared at the bottle. She had only ever drunk water from the hose or the kitchen tap. Water came in plastic or pipes. Not glass.

She reached out, her hand trembling. Her fingernails were rimmed with black dirt. The contrast against the pristine bottle was stark.

"Thank you," she whispered. Her voice sounded rusty.

"I bet she doesn't even know how to open it," Harlen scoffed. He put his headphones on, but left one ear cup off, just to make sure she heard him.

Arthur turned in his seat. His movement was sharp, violent. He reached back and snatched the game console out of Harlen's hands.

"Hey!" Harlen yelled. "I was on the boss level!"

"You don't deserve distractions," Arthur said. His voice was terrifyingly calm. "You need to sit there and think about the fact that your sister has been living in hell while you were leveling up."

He tossed the console onto the empty seat next to him.

Harlen's face went red. He glared at Estelle. Pure, unadulterated hatred. This is your fault, his eyes screamed.

Estelle flinched. "I'm sorry," she blurted out. "Give it back to him. I don't mind. I'm used to... people saying things."

The car went silent.

That was the wrong thing to say. She saw Eleanor's face crumble. Arthur gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked.

"You shouldn't be used to it," Arthur said, his voice thick.

Harlen just rolled his eyes and put both headphones on, blocking them out.

The car slowed. They were turning off the highway.

Estelle looked out the window. The rusted factories and strip malls were gone. Instead, there were trees. Huge, ancient oaks that lined the road like soldiers. The grass was impossibly green, cut so short it looked like carpet.

"Almost there," Eleanor said. She pointed a manicured finger at the horizon. "Look, Elara. That's home."

Estelle pressed her forehead against the cool glass.

In the distance, rising out of the greenery like a castle from a storybook, was a house. No, not a house. An estate. It had white pillars and endless windows and slate roofs.

It was beautiful. And it was terrifying.

Harlen pulled one side of his headphones back. He leaned forward, his voice low so his parents couldn't hear, just for her.

"That's our house," he hissed. "You're just a visitor."

Estelle pulled back from the window. The cold glass left a mark on her forehead. She looked at her lap, at her dirty hands, and she believed him.

The gates were iron lace, black and gold, towering twenty feet into the air. They swung open silently, admitting the convoy into a world that didn't obey the laws of physics Estelle knew.

Here, leaves didn't seem to fall. Dirt didn't exist.

The driveway was two miles long. Estelle counted the seconds. It took five minutes just to get from the gate to the front door.

When the car finally stopped, it was in front of a fountain. A marble statue of a woman pouring water stood in the center. The water was crystal clear.

"Come on," Eleanor said, opening the door.

Estelle stepped out. Her sneakers looked like insults against the paving stones.

A double line of people stood on the steps. Maids in black and white uniforms. Men in suits. They stood rigid, hands clasped behind their backs.

"Welcome home, Miss Estelle," a man at the front said.

He was older, with silver hair and a tuxedo that fit him perfectly. Winston. The butler.

Estelle panicked. She didn't know what to do. In the foster homes, when adults lined up like this, it meant inspection. It meant you stood still and hoped they didn't find lice.

She bowed. A clumsy, jerky motion. "I... I'm clean. I mean, I will be. I promise."

A ripple of shock went through the line of staff. A maid near the back covered her mouth.

Winston's face softened. His professional mask slipped, revealing deep, aching pity. He stepped forward, ignoring protocol, and offered her a hand.

"You are perfect, Miss," he said gently.

Just then, the second SUV pulled up. The back opened.

Buster jumped out.

The staff gasped and scattered. Two maids shrieked. The dog was a scarred, muscular brute in a world of porcelain and silk. He let out a low, rumbling bark, confused by the smells.

"Buster!" Estelle cried.

She broke away from Winston and ran to the dog. She dropped to her knees on the driveway, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"It's okay, boy. Shhh."

Under her hands, the dog went limp. He sat down, leaning his heavy weight against her thigh. He looked at the terrified servants and yawned.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A sound came from the top of the stairs. Heavy. Rhythm.

The massive front doors opened.

An old man stepped out. He leaned on a cane with a gold handle shaped like a lion's head. He wore a three-piece suit, even though he was in his own home. His white hair was swept back, revealing a face that was severe, lined with power and age.

Alistair Bridges. The patriarch.

The air seemed to get thinner. Even Arthur straightened his spine.

Alistair stood at the top of the stairs, looking down. His eyes were like lasers. They swept over the cars, the staff, his son, and finally landed on the dirty girl kneeling on the pavement with a fighting dog.

Estelle felt the weight of his gaze. It was heavy, like a stone.

She knew that look. It was the look of a judge.

She instinctively tried to hide. She shifted her body, trying to put Buster between her and the old man. She used the dog as a shield, peering over his scarred back, waiting for the order to leave.