“She’s half dead already. There’s no way she’ll survive out here overnight.”
There’s a hum of agreement, then I’m jostled again into someone’s arms. They carry me for a moment before dropping me—throwing me is perhaps a better description—onto the wet ground below.
Pain explodes through my body as I land on the solid surface.
There are footsteps. They’re growing quieter.
The car door slams again.
The engine roars.
Silence.
I’m going to die out here. Whenever here is. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
4
Slow And Painful Death
The olive grove feels empty without you. Please write back soon. I want to hear all about America. —Love, Izzy
Izzy
Thescreechoftireswakes me.
“Shit. Hold on. I’m going to lift you, okay?”
I can’t reply; my mouth is too dry; my eyes still won’t open.
For a third time I’m lifted into someone’s arms, but this time, I can feel from the way they’re holding me, they're afraid of hurting me.
I’m gently placed into a car seat and laid down over theback. A new blanket is placed over me, the soft fabric adding a welcome layer of comfort.
“I’m going to get you to a hospital.” The voice is laced with concern. It’s a man; I can tell that much.
Wait. Hospital?
No, I can't go there. Lucas will find me.
It takes everything in me to force my eyelids open.
A man looks down at me. He has brown eyes, a pained smile, and the wrinkles on his face tell me he’s older.
He moves to close the door but, despite the pain, my arm shoots out and catches the sleeve of his flannel shirt.
“I need to get you to the hospital. It won’t be long now. Just hold on.”
“No,” I rasp. “No hospital.” The words are painful to say.
“You need to be seen,” he says, looking panicked.
I swallow hard. “Get… me…” each word feels like glass sliding down my throat, “to… Enzo Russo.”
I need to be somewhere I can fall apart.
The man’s face pales. But he must see something in mine because he nods before unconsciousness claims me.
Enzo
