“Sofia.”
The name is a prayer. He exhales it like smoke.
“Who was she?”
“She was a journalist. In Mexico City.” He grips the wheel so hard the leather creaks. “She was investigating a cartel. She thought the system would protect her. She thought being right was enough.”
The parallel hits me like a slap. A woman investigating powerful people. Trusting the system.
“What happened?”
“I was deployed. Syria.” His voice is flat, dead. “I wasn’t there. I trusted the federal police to keep her safe. I trusted the protocol.”
He glances at me. The pain in his eyes is raw, bleeding.
“They ran her car off the road. Brakes failed. Three hundred feet into a canyon.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Sorry doesn’t fix it.” He looks back at the road. “That’s why I don’t use the system. That’s why I don’t trust police. And that’s why I don’t get attached.”
“Because you think you’re cursed.”
“Because I am.”
“So you treat me like a package. Because if I’m just a package, you won’t care if I break.”
“If you’re a package, I won’t hesitate.”
“But I’m not. I’m not a package, am I?”
“No,” he says softly. “You’re not.”
He reaches out. Covers my hand on the console.
His palm is rough. Warm. His fingers lace through mine.
He squeezes. Hard. Like he’s checking to make sure I’m real. Like he’s checking to make sure he’s real.
“I’m not Sofia,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I’m right here. You’re right here. You’re not in Syria. You’re in a minivan.”
He lets out a breath. A long, shuddering sound.
“We’re stopping,” he says. His voice is tight.
“Why?”
“Because I need five minutes. And you need food.”
He pulls the minivan off the highway. A desolate exit. A gas station with barred windows and a flickering neon sign.
He parks in the back, away from the pumps. Kills the engine.
But he doesn’t let go of my hand.
