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Someone bumped into her, and another couple sidestepped her. Porters in navy uniforms pushed silver carts piled high with hard-covered suitcases, boxes, and garment bags. Ronja realized she was an aggravating roadblock. As she moved along, she saw a small beacon of hope. A display of various flags with English lettering: CURRENCY EXCHANGE. She searched the tote and emerged with the coin purse of kronor. She’d already used some on the ride to the airport, a vending machine snack, and the headscarf and sunglasses. The exchange rate would hopefully fetch her a decent amount in dollars.

Once she had a fresh stack of green American bills and various coins in her hand, she followed the flight check-in signs. Her ticket to Minnesota said Northwest Orient. Ronja took the stairs and paused. Fuzzy stars in her periphery slowed her progress. She had an urge to pee. She clutched the tote, hunted for restroom signage, and hurried into one.

The toilets cost money to use. She allowed another woman behind her to go first, to see which coin was needed. Ronja searched for one amongst her new currency and was successful. She examined her reflection in a mirror while she waited and lowered the sunglasses to peer at herself.

She saw her blue eyes, wide with apprehension. She scrunched her nose. The body odor was hers. Ronja studied the other women’s clothing. Polyester and paisley. She compared their coiffed, shellacked hair, bright lipstick, and powdered noses to her own straw-colored curls and natural face. Her fingers trembled when she touched the bruise on her cheekbone. Once the bruise faded, so would her vivid recollection of Peter’s knuckles planting it there. Same with the head wound covered by the green and blue scarf she’d tightly arranged. How would she get the stitches out?

She glanced at a newspaper someone had discarded on the counter. The New York Times. Several headlines and black and white pictures were scattered over the pages.

“Columbia University Closes Campus Among Student-Led War Protests”

“President Continues Plea for Peace Amongst Civil Unrest”

Ronja studied herself in the mirror once more.

No wonder the customs officer had scoffed at the age imprinted upon the passport.

Chapter Five

Ronja

The long flight to Minneapolis felt to be only minutes compared to the haul from Stockholm. No need to clear customs. I’m free. She only had to follow the signs, but halted, needing to recoup her strategy. Ronja reached inside the tote, ran her fingers over the horse’s jewels, and silently recited her German prayer.

I can do this. She would find a taxi, a hotel, and a new life.

Outside, springtime in Minneapolis appeared similar to Stockholm: crisp. A noisy roadway directly above her blocked the sunlight, but the shade was a welcome relief against another blossoming headache. Jumping through time zones had done her no favors. Ronja inhaled the brisk air and cough-inducing exhaust of cars, taxis, and buses. Travelers bustled. Officers and porters dictated traffic and schlepped luggage.

The instinct for shelter and sleep was powerful. But so was nourishment. Her vision blackened, and sounds muffled as a strange, pungent odor germinated within her nostrils, along with a gorge in her throat.

Ronja ran to a trashcan and heaved.

She wiped the acid from her lips. She stumbled away and slumped against a concrete pillar in relieved sorrow over the enormity of what she’d accomplished. Escaped to a place where Peter could never find her.

“Miss, are you all right?” A porter stopped and hunched over.

Ronja nodded, accepting the man’s hand. “Taxi?” she said.

His white, relieved smile shone against the rich dark skin she was unaccustomed to seeing in Sweden. “Right this way. Do you have any bags?” He extended his other hand toward her tote.

Ronja gripped it tightly, shaking her head. Engines chugged on the road as he guided her, horns beeped, and flight calls boomed overhead. “First call, Delta Flight 299 . . .” All these sounds collided, yet her vision sharpened once she focused on the cars. So many cars. She recognized the make of a green Volvo. Nineteen-sixty-one P1800, probably with a B18B engine.

He brought her to an idling, yellow cab, and opened the back passenger door. “Where to?”

“Hotel, Minneapolis,” she said, nodding to a driver wearing a pageboy cap pulled over curly hair.

“Well, which one!” He chuckled.

She forced a flighty response, “The . . . biggest one?”

The two men exchanged more chuckles as she settled onto the vinyl seat. The porter began to close the door, but Ronja said, “Wait,” and foraged through her tote. She handed him a five-dollar bill. He blinked wide, and she blew him a kiss, then shut the door.

Ronja adjusted her sunglasses and looked out the window, watching the landscape careen. On the other side of the highway, a massive, arched bridge spanned a sparkling river. Green forestry lined the steep banks. She knotted the tote’s handles around her wrist. Her eyes grew heavy as the car purred along. Her skull pulsated.

The driver clicked the radio on. “Do you like American music?” Deep base and jarring guitar chords filled the interior.

Ronja thought of the last song she’d heard in Stockholm before she’d arrived at the hospital. Before everything she’d plotted went awry. A live string quartet had serenaded her with Musetta’s Waltz.

While she danced with Peter.