“Oh, no.”
“Your ankle acting up?”
“What? Oh, no, it’s not that.”
It takes him a beat to figure it out. “Oh.” He looks rather pleased with himself. “I got it.”
“Don’t look so smug.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Not very successfully.”
“What d’ya expect?”
I laugh and reach out for him. I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m going to give him one of those teasing swats. Or maybe I’m going to squeeze him.
It doesn’t matter because the sound of an engine behind us makes us break apart abruptly and then step to the side of the road.
It’s a truck with its back full of produce, likely transporting it from a farm to the Capitol. Unlike the other trucks, this one slows down when the driver sees us. Then comes to a stop right in front of us.
“You folks need some help?” The driver is unkempt and dressed in rags, but he’s unusually handsome beneath the dirt. His hair glints gold in the sunshine, and his eyes are sharp and intelligent.
“We’re okay,” Ben calls back. “Just headin’ to a village down the way in the hopes of makin’ a trade.”
“You can hop in the back if you want.”
Not everyone stops to offer assistance, but it’s also not a rare phenomenon. But something about this man is incongruous. Like he doesn’t belong in that truck or in those rags.
I have no idea what makes me think such a thing, but it gives me a moment’s pause.
“I’m not hauling around contraband, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the man says, peering at me like he’s trying to figure me out. “Just taking this load of produce to the Capital. I can take you until the turnoff. Won’t be long, but it’ll shave a few miles off your walk.”
His words reassure me. They sound exactly as they should sound for a good-natured village farmer.
He was probably a very smart boy whose choices were limited to various kinds of manual labor. He certainly wouldn’t be the only person never given the chance to fulfill their potential.
“That’s so nice of you,” I say with a smile. Ben has been silent. Waiting for me to decide. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing. Be careful climbing in. Don’t let anything fall out.”
The ridewe hitch from the driver shaves ten miles off the second leg of our trip. After he drops us off again, we onlyhave a couple more miles remaining to walk before we’re approaching the village.
It’s not far from the village where I was born and grew up. The village where Teresa and her family still live today. This one was far enough away from our home for my mother to start fresh but close enough for her to reach without trouble.
She married the village administrator, so she has a big house on a large property and all the comforts village life can offer.
My heart and belly both get heavy as we approach the main gate into the village. It’s guarded, like all populated communities in the known world are.
We explain ourselves and our purpose for coming, using the cover story we already have in place as local traders hoping to make a deal in the village. We show the village guards the forged papers and explain we’re hoping to discuss possibilities with the administrator.
The guards let us in with no trouble, but they say the administrator is out of town, so we’ll probably have to talk to someone else instead.
It’s been years since Ben and I have been here—not since I stopped to visit my mother after leaving my husband. But villages never change, and we remember the way to her house. We start walking in that direction as soon as we’ve gotten through the gate.
Ben says, “So your mom’s husband’s out of town? While she’s dying? That seems kinda shitty.”
I sigh. “It is shitty. But I guess I’m not surprised. This is the life she chose for herself. She was comfortable but not loved.”
