Kyla almost rolled her eyes. Her friend lacked imagination sometimes, which was ironic when you knew how she’d survived this long. “They could have come from the border. They could have come cross-country over the desert.”
“Or they could just be travelers running low on gas. Like ourselves.”
The men were getting closer. Fernanda had a point: these two men might explain the rusted Ford pickup they’d seen abandoned near the sign for the motel.
“They are not dressed for this weather,” Fernanda said.
“That ain’t our problem.”
“I did not say it was.”
The men were thirty yards away. Twenty. The taller of them stuck out the gas can. Kyla saw it trembling.
“Do you recognize them?” Fernanda said.
Kyla looked from one face to the other, her mind rolling back through all the faces she’d served at Stockton Steaks. “I don’t think so.”
“So they might not work for Frank.”
“The man hires contractors. If they came from the border, there’s no telling who they are.”
“You know they will die in the cold.”
“I don’t know that.”
“We have already killed one man today,” Fernanda said.
Kyla said, “What’s two more?”
The men were ten yards away. If they were going to try something, they would try it now. Kyla’s fingers tightened around the gun in her hand.
Fernanda said, “You do not mean that.”
The Malibu pulled level with the boys. The shorter one was already turning away: he knew the score.
The taller boy, the one trying so hard to look hard, met Kyla’s eye. She saw a flash of something on his face. Saw an honest emotion break free from all that fake anger.
Kyla saw a deep, roiling fear inside the boy. She knew that fear.
She felt it herself.
And then the boys were gone, behind them, the Malibu racing onward. Already, Kyla regretted their decision. Fernanda must have caught something in the air. She said, “We can still go back.”
Kyla eased back into her seat. She released the gun, shook her head, patted down her hair. She forced herself to stare straight ahead.
If she started feeling regret now—regret, shame, horror at all that had happened this afternoon—she’d never stop. She’d never make it to Mexico. She’d never survive.
“Keep driving,” she said. “We need to get to that motel before the gas runs out.”
PENELOPE
Down the Dust Road, coming from the other direction, was a bland gray minivan, a Honda Odyssey, driven by a bland man with a bland name. In the back of the van, on the floor, hidden well out of sight, was a sixteen-year-old girl wearing new clothes, a new haircut, and all her old rage. She was not riding in this van willingly. Her name was Penelope Holiday. The man up front was her grandfather. His name was Stanley. Penelope hated Stanley, and not just because she was sixteen.
Stanley was driving her back to Fort Stockton, a place that would be terrible even if itweren’trun by Penelope’s Uncle Frank.
Three days ago in Mexico City, Penelope had realized she was getting the wrong kind of looks. At the time she’d been with a different man, a man who was the opposite of bland, and the gap between her age and the man’s was clearly drawing attention, even in the shadier parts of town. She’d felt a strange nagging sensation, like someone was perched behind her, digging their nails into the back of her scalp, and after long experience, Penelope knew that this was usually a sign she was missing something, that she was in trouble, that she needed to watch out.
There had been times in the last three years—ever since The Bad Night—when this itch on her scalp had grown so irritating (so painful) Penelope had asked her doctors about it. They’d done scans. Run tests. In the end, they told her it was just residual nerve damage left behind from the surgery that had removed the bullet from Penelope’s brain.But if you feel like it’s telling you something useful, her surgeon had said,no harm in listening.
