Excerpt from Butterfly Yellow by Thanhha Lai, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Hằng hides behind a standing picture of a sugar-glazed cake the size of her torso. The image alone induces a swollen tongue and a stomachache. It's 4:27. She must get to A-ma-ri-lo before nightfall, before her brother is put to bed. In case he's not there, she needs daylight to ... no, he will be there.

Hằng hears Bà's voice again: When in danger look for those who can't help but be kind, kindness from the stomach out. Tốt từ trong bụng ra.

Hằng looks: a tall cowboy stomping the floor in heeled boots (no), a wiggly woman with big hair and a tiny waist (no), a laughing couple with hands in each other's jeans pocket (no), a father scolding his boy (no), three women in doll dresses and boots (no), an older couple, plain of dress, low of voice.

She inhales and commands herself forward despite a torpedo-ing heart and wavery nerves, knowing outsiders see her as short, quail-boned, narrow-shouldered, and without any fat. But if they look into her eyes, they can't miss the determination. If a camera were to capture her face, or better yet just her eyes, she can pass for being in her twenties and beyond.

She tries a simple "Hé-lô," but lead fills her tongue. Ever prepared, she pulls out cards En-Di had been instructed to write in bold and shoves one at the woman.

"No thank you, dearie, we don't want to buy anything."

Hằng holds up the card and jabs at the words:

PLEASE GO TO 405 MESQUITE STREET IN AMARILLO.
MY BROTHER NEEDS HELP NOW.

"Is she mute?" the man asks. "I'll be, who would leave a mute child at a rest stop? She looks about ready to cry on us."

Instead of tears, Hằng wants to shout. She feels the humiliating claws of desperation, which holds hands with helplessness. How she hates being helpless. But the couple's faces are softening. A crying mute she shall become.

Tears refuse to drop. So annoyed with herself she's near a growl, probably appearing feral, an expression she has tried to banish but it nonetheless paces beneath her skin.

"Is her brother in trouble?" The man has an easy, slow, understandable lilt. He looks at his wife. "We have time to give the child a lift?"

They confer. Heads shake.

Hằng thrusts a second card at them:

I COME FROM VIETNAM TO RESCUE MY BROTHER.

"Vietnam? My word!"

Hằng nods and nods.

The couple, in turn, assesses the crowd. They settle on a husband, wife, tall girls. Before they finish explaining, the family walks away. People have been watching and are rushing to emergencies in the bathroom, out in the heat.

A shiny, tall cowboy walks in. Ripened-papaya hair, speckled face, pillow middle, puffy cheeks, and those eyes, those beaming eyes belong to someone who has received a sky size of indulgence. The couple rushes toward him.

Hằng panics. She can't tell if kindness coils within his stomach. His inside is blank to her. Still, she's careful. Plenty of blank children grow up evil. She's certain of only one fact: he's the cleanest cowboy she's ever seen.

He says, "I'm not going that way." The couple keeps whispering.

He says, "But I've got somewhere I've got to be." The couple reasons with him.

He says, "Sorry." The couple tries to give him ten dollars.

He walks fast outside. They follow and drag along a confused Hằng.

They all stop at a gleaming red truck. The wife takes the cowboy's hand, smiles, and places Hằng's emergency card in his palm. "Take her to this here address. It can't be but a few minutes out of your way." She pauses until he looks at her. "It's the Christian thing to do."

She opens the passenger-side door and shoves in Hằng, who catches the woman's husband tucking ten dollars inside the cowboy's shirt pocket. "Son, show her some good ol' Texas hospitality."

Excerpted from Butterfly Yellow by Thanhha Lai. Copyright © 2019 by Thanhha Lai. Excerpted by permission of HarperCollins Children's Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.