Nightfall by Ellen Connor

higher chance of survival.
    The trick would be getting out of the cabin and back to civilization without those demon dogs snacking on them. Surely, there had to be somewhere safe. These woods didn’t exactly qualify as “safe.” The mother would fight hard for her daughter, the kind of determination that might make a difference. On the other hand, the athlete-gone-to-seed resembled a worshipful puppy at the injured woman’s side, and both of them were weak, out of shape. And the kid—he was a wild card.
    She crossed to Mason and spoke in whispers. “How bad will this get?”
    His silencing look said he couldn’t answer in front of the strangers.
    â€œListen up,” he announced, loud enough to draw all their attention. “If you stay here, it’s because I let you. That means doing whatever I say, when I say it. No asking why.”
    â€œOkay.” The redhead’s quick agreement made Jenna think she’d do anything to keep her little girl indoors.
    Nobody else objected, which showed they had sense. The girl moved quietly to the hearth and curled up on the floor. She had yet to speak a single word. Maybe she was in shock, traumatized in ways that would take months, if not years, to overcome.
    Jenna shuddered, trying not to imagine what this little group had seen. If Mason hadn’t shoved her in the trunk, she might be a casualty by now.
    Everyone relaxed a little once the nurse’s aide had bandaged the bite mark. At least they didn’t need to look at it. Jenna went into the kitchen and started another casserole—canned chicken this time. To make enough for everyone required extra cans of each ingredient. Mason cut her a sharp look as if he was thinking the same thing. She scowled right back at him.
    â€œI want names now.” He settled onto one of the kitchen table benches with the assault rifle across his knees. “And the abridged version of how you wound up at my door.”
    The man spoke for them. “I am—I was —the assistant coach for the Wabaugh JV football program. Bob Suleski.” He shifted as if he’d rise to shake hands, but Mason curled his fingers around the rifle’s grip. Robert sank back into his chair, then tilted his head. “This is Edna Cartwright, the school guidance counselor.”
    Edna pushed up her horn-rims and managed a wan smile. “Go Wolverines.”
    If Jenna had recognized it, the name of the school might have provided her an idea of their location. But she’d never heard of Wabaugh.
    â€œEdna and I, we carpool together,” Bob added.
    Mason smiled. “How environmentally responsible of you,” he said, his voice a dark rasp. “And what about you, kid?”
    The Goth flipped ink black hair out of his eyes. “I’m Midnight. I go to Wabaugh. Or I did,” he added, sounding uneasy.
    He couldn’t be more than fifteen, slender in a bony, boyish way. His feet were huge in contrast to the rest of him, his face pale and pretty. Jenna doubted his parents had named him Midnight. He might be Ed or Steve, maybe James, and he needed to get over himself fast.
    By his impatient sigh, Mason must have shared her estimation. “Not your handle, kid. Your name .”
    â€œTru.” His posture became defensive. “It’s my real name, okay? My mom named me after Truman Capote.”
    â€œAnd I’m Angela Sheehan,” the redhead added. “My daughter’s Penny.”
    Edna, Bob, Angela, Penny, and Tru. Jenna committed their names to memory. She liked to think it was a nod to the idea they’d all survive long enough for such courtesies to matter.
    â€œI’m Jenna,” she said from the kitchenette, scooping the casserole into its dish. “And this is Mason.”
    No surprise that Mason brushed off her attempt at being civil. “I’ll ask again: How’d you get here? How’d you find us?”
    Jenna realized the reason for his