She still doesn't look at him. "On whose authority?"
"Nobody's."
"Mm." She nods, slow, like he's confirmed something. Then she turns and puts all of it on me at once, and everything before this was her being polite. "Who are you?"
Here it is.
One card. I've had one card since I sat on my mother's kitchen floor with a Manila envelope and a strip of postcards and an address in my father's handwriting, and I only get to play it once.
"My name's Camila Bacani."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"No." I let it sit. "It doesn't."
Her chin comes up about a quarter inch. That's not anger. Anger I could work with. "You walked here?"
"Yes."
"From where?"
"The highway." My backpack strap has cut a line into my shoulder, and I leave it there.
She lets that sit. "Before that."
"Arizona."
Her thumb taps the truck door once. "And you're at my gate because?"
I turn my head and look at Finn.
He's gone gray. He knows what's coming.
He's been standing there ninety seconds waiting for the roof to come down, and here it comes, and there's nothing on this earth he can do about it.
I look for something in myself about that.
There's nothing there.
"Because of him," I say.
"He's got a name."
"He does." I bring my eyes back to her. "It's Finn Kincaid."
Nobody moves.
The wind comes across the gravel and pushes a plastic bag along the fence line and I hear it the whole way.
Amara doesn't look at him.
Not one inch. She doesn't turn her head toward the man twenty feet away, and her hand stays flat on the truck door, and she won't spend a second of it in front of me.
She looks at me for a long time.
"Get in the truck," she says.
"No."
