One was green, the other had a faded picture of a camel on it. Lighters. Mom sold me to a hunter for lighters. I tossed through everything in that dank hole we called a camp and that’s the only things new — two lighters! Mom said it “wasn’t bad for five minutes’ work,” but she wasn’t the one who could still smell and taste him. She acted like we were bonding now, laughing about how stupid sweaty old Arthur had believed that crap about them going to school together. I said the near-empty lighters wouldn’t even last long. She did that thing where she raised her eyebrows and shrugged. This was all some crazy game to her. She said there’d be more lighters; more hunters, then turned back around. I slid the knife in my boot when she went back to what she was doin’. I grabbed the chain and padlock, too. Yeah, there’d be more hunters. Especially if she screamed as loud as she made Dad scream.