It slips out somewhere between Des Moines and Lincoln. Matt’s complaining, looking through dad’s journal at all the stuff on Yellow-Eyes and saying, I don’t get it, why me, why I was chosen, why, why, why, and Amy’s trying, she is, trying to listen to Robert Plant sing but Matt’s such a little bitch sometimes, and it just slips.
She says, “You’re special, everyone knows that. That’s why Dad always—” and she stops herself there, but Matt’s giving her that look, where his eyebrows knit down like he’s confused. Cro-Magnon brows on little Mattie, seriously. “Nothing. I don’t know.”
"Amy, what did you mean by that?"
"Nothing," she says again, gives Matt a tight smile. Her hands are white-knuckled around the steering wheel. "I didn’t say anything."
"Are you saying—are you saying Dad loved me better or something?" Matt asks her incredulously.
"What? He did." And it’s something she’s always known, has always thought to herself, but somehow the words hurt more to say out loud. "It’s not a big deal."
"Amy," Matt starts, working through the words patiently as if explaining a big concept to someone very small and very stupid, "we always—we always fought. Me and Dad. You know that, you were the perfect—"
"I was the perfect soldier, Mattie. You were the perfect kid. There’s a difference."