The word hits me harder than any bullet ever has.
"She's fine," the lie comes immediately. No pause. No doubt. "She's safe. And you'll talk to her soon. I promise." That part is true. I'm not so sure about the first.
He watches my face the way children do when they're deciding whether to believe a lie. Whatever he sees there seems to satisfy him. "Okay."
Notthank you. Notare you sure. Justokay.
I close the door gently behind him and lean my forehead against the bulkhead for half a second longer than necessary.My son. Only a few feet from me. A little person I didn't know existed just a few days ago, and who has already taken up permanent residence in my chest. I take a few deep breaths before I turn back.
Whitford is still talking. Still demanding. The doctor reassures him, checks his reflexes, and explains things Whitford doesn't want to hear. I ignore them until Amauri steps out a few minutes later, hair damp, clothes clean, looking smaller somehow without the grime and fear clinging to him. He walks straight to Whitford.
"Dad?" his voice is tight with apprehension, as if he's worried about the other man but not sure how he'll be received. I ball my fists. I'm only a hairsbreadth away from killing the bastard. Amauri is the only thing stopping me.
Whitford looks at him, annoyed, distracted. "Not now," he snaps. "Can't you see I'm hurt?"
Amauri's brow furrows. He steps closer to Whitford's seat, worry etched into his face.
"He needs water," Amauri says, turning to me. "And food. He hasn't eaten properly. He gets dizzy."
My chest tightens. Maybe I can have the flight attendant add some poison to the food and drink. It takes some willpower, but finally I manage to press out, "He'll be taken care of, I'll make sure of it."
Amauri considers that. Then nods once, satisfied. He climbs back onto the seat across from Whitford, close enough to keep watch, but far enough not to be snapped at again. He buckles himself in carefully, like he's been doing it alone for a while.
I take the seat opposite him, ignoring Whitford, who is eyeing me suspiciously. Amauri glances at me, then away. Then back again.
"You don't look like the bad guys," he finally decides.
I swallow. "I guess not."
He accepts that, too. Outside the small oval window, the sky lightens, and dawn bleeds slowly into the night. And for the first time since this began, I let myself think it: I have him. I have my son.
And the ones who made him learn how to be this brave? They will pay for it in ways no doctor can ever fix.
A flight attendant appears like she's afraid to disturb something sacred. She sets down a tray—chicken nuggets cut small, fruit, juice in a glass—and withdraws without a word. Amauri brightens at the sight of food.
"Dad," he calls to Whitford. "You have to eat. And drink. You're shaking."
Whitford barely glances at him. "I need a shower," he mutters. "I smell like—Christ?—"
"You can have one," I cut in. I don't look at him. "They'll help you."
I nod once towards my men. Two of them move immediately. Efficient. Professional. Whitford bristles, starts to protest, but they're already lifting him carefully, carrying him toward the rear cabin. I don't spare him another thought.
Amauri watches them go, then turns back to his food with the seriousness of someone fulfilling a responsibility. He takes a bite, chews, swallows, and drinks juice. Only then does he look at me again.
"That was scary," I say, because silence feels wrong and I have no clue what else to say.
He nods, mouth full. "Yeah."
I shift, uncomfortable. I've interrogated men. I've negotiated wars. Talking to a ten-year-old feels like walking blindfolded across a wire.
"They were scary," he continues. "I didn't understand them. But Dad did." He pauses. "He said Grandpa would get us out of there."
My chest tightens.
"Did Grandpa send you?" he asks suddenly.
I don't know why I answer the way I do. I don't calculate it. I don't soften it.
