ASHLEY
My bag. The Ziplock of soiled wipes. The towel. My wallet. My phone.
I scan the seat, the floor, the dash. It’s gone—left in the other cab. The one on its way to port with Beckett and the boys.
The car slows, pulling to a stop outside a squat concrete building with government signage that I don’t bother trying to translate.
“Oh no.” My voice is barely a whisper.
Panic surges. But—wait—in my pocket, I have some emergency cash.
I find the crumpled twenty, press it into the driver’s hand, thank him in shaky Spanglish, and climb out onto the hot pavement.
It’s fine. The office will have a phone that I can use to call Beckett. Another cab fare, but… Not the end of the world.
I square my shoulders, walk to the door, and reach for the handle?—
Or maybe it is.
Because the door doesn’t budge. I try again, but… it’s locked.
There’s a small sign by the window.Horario de atención: Lunes a viernes. Cerrado sábado y domingo.
Closed Saturday and Sunday. Are you kidding me?
But of course they are closed on Saturday. Why hadn’t anyone realized today wasa freaking Saturday?
But if I can’t get that paperwork?—
If the registrar’s office is closed?—
My heart stops.
That’s when the heat really hits me. The sun feels brutal now, like it’s pressing down on my shoulders, my chest. My stomach rolls. My vision blurs at the edges.
This was supposed to be a quick errand. Ten minutes. In and out.
Does this mean Luna and Noah can’t get married?
No! No! No! This isn’t happening. Not after all the planning, the travel, the dresses, the families, the unique anticipation leading up to what’s supposed to be their perfect day?—
And I’m standing on a sizzling sidewalk in Ensenada with no phone, no wallet, no way to call for help.
The world tilts.
I press my hand to my stomach, trying to breathe, trying not to spiral.
I need… a phone.
I head in the direction that looks most promising, and after what’s probably only about twenty minutes—even though the heat makes it feel longer—a cluster of shops and cafés comes into view. Tourists. Shade. Civilization.
My legs wobble as I approach a tiny souvenir shop, where an older couple outside are kind enough to let me borrow a phone.
With shaky fingers, I key in Beckett’s number.
It rings three times, four times, five… then goes to voice mail. “You’ve reached Beckett Carrington. I can’t answer my phone right now…” I start to leave a message, but then it hits me—he said he lost his phone and had to get a new number. One I haven’t bothered to memorize. But then if he’s been using the new burner phone… why is the old one still working? Still ringing, still using his recorded message?
I just… I can’t think about this right now. Beckett’s phone is a no-go, and I don’t know anyone else’s number by heart—except for Mom’s landline.
