Four.

Teddy Edwards does magic tricks. Sometimes there's a puff of smoke. Not always. My model soldiers disappear, then come back again. A card goes, then he cuts open an orange and it's inside. We all cheer and clap. He does a big bow then goes all floppy, so that we can play with him again.

 

Billy punches Teddy. I tell him to "Stop that now!" then hide the bear behind the desk so he's safe. When the other children have gone and mummy has tucked me in, he comes out again, crawls onto the bed and puts his arm around me.

 

* * *

 

Eight.

Teddy Edwards can sing some nursery rhymes and point at letters in a book and make 'ahr' and 'grr' sounds, but he doesn't answer questions except to shake or nod his head. Daddy had promised me an update so he could talk, but I think that's been forgotten.

 

That doesn't stop me speaking to Teddy all the time. I wake up shouting, "Morning, Teddy." After school I tell him everything that has happened. If I've got into a fight, he doesn't scream or hit me, just listens to everything, keeping his big brown eyes on mine. He'll turn his head if someone else speaks, or there's a sudden loud noise, but his attention always comes back to me.

 

I have heard all his songs many times, but when I ask him to sing loud to drown out the crying and banging from downstairs, he always does.

 

* * *

 

Twelve.

I hate it when he stares at me. If I wake and find him snuggled up alongside, I toss him onto the floor. Eventually, he stops getting onto my bed. When I check the house cameras that mum had installed after dad left, he's there, outside my bedroom door, head slowly turning, scanning the landing like a tiny bouncer. On the panel where the back fur has worn away, the words Guard Mode will be pulsing red.

 

In the morning, he tiptoes in, positions himself where he can recharge and then goes to stand-by. It creeps me out. A girl that I like giggles a pitying laugh when she sees him, so I start locking my door.

 

Teddy still keeps vigil. One night, heading for the bathroom, I trip over his body. "Damn it!" A kick sends him into the wall. After that, he retreats to the cupboard where we keep all the old toys.

 

* * *

 

Sixteen.

It's dark but I keep the lights off. The old lady isn't likely to wake given the amount she's drunk, but you never know. She called the Feds on me last time.

 

I'm searching for money, or something I can turn into money ASAP. Jewellery or watches would be good, short of that, anything portable. With a sinking feeling, I realise that everything here is junk. This is the final room and is even worse than the others, full of dusty crap that hasn't been touched in years.

 

Opening the last cupboard, I jump back in shock. Two shining eyes turn toward me from a moth-eaten, matted face. "Jesus!" The door slams shut. I'm so screwed. I really, really need money.

 

* * * 

Twenty.

Clearing the house is more difficult than I expected. Can't say it was ever full of happiness, but it was home. Every faded photograph under a table, each notch in the woodwork, stirs memories. Most of them bad, but not all.

 

As ever, the main purpose is to raise funds. I'm filtering the stuff into two piles. Total trash and maybe worth something. If I can find a vintage dealer, perhaps ten percent of everything here will generate cash. Most of the toys are too damaged, but teddy bears, even old models as battered as this, might hold some value.

 

Staring into his face produces no response. The sewn-on smile has come loose at one end and is turned down. "You look as miserable as I feel."

 

Chucking him into the trailer, I drive away without a backward glance.

 

* * *

 

Twenty-four.

Suddenly, I am awake and scared, holding my breath until I remember that I do have to breathe. There is a plan. Get to my kitchen, through the window, then over the fence. But all that assumes prior warning. Security had been installed, but their tech is obviously better than mine.

 

The light clicks on. When my eyes adjust, there are four of them in ski masks standing around the bed. The weapons are a giveaway. Baseball bats might have meant just broken bones. Two machetes, a long knife, a pistol with a silencer, all say that I am as good as dead. I open my mouth to plead, but then I think, What's the point?

 

A noise from the top of the cupboard causes our heads to swivel in unison. Something flies through the air. There's a gurgling, tearing sound. A splatter of warm sticky liquid hits my face, leaving the taste of iron in my mouth. Ducking under the covers, I hear muffled screams, shouting, the thud of the gun firing twice, then silence.

 

I emerge to carnage. Two of my would-be killers have their throats ripped out. One has been shot. The shooter himself has Teddy Edwards's arm stuck through his eye socket. When I turn him over, Teddy has a scorched hole in front and a bigger one in his back. Stuffing and wires trail out into the pool of gore. Somehow his smile has righted itself, and both bright pupils follow my movements. A paw flutters, as if trying to reach towards me. I find myself weeping, out of relief or something else, I don't know.

 

More men will be coming, so I pull myself together, snatch my pre-packed bag and head for the door. Looking back, I see the small body lying soaked in blood. I reach down to pick up my only friend in the world, and together we run out into the night.