Beside me were two worn-out suitcases, one ripped cloth bag, and an empty lunchbox my daughter kept opening as though food might somehow appear by magic.
“Mommy,” Lily whispered, pressing one hand against her stomach. “Is the bus coming soon?”
My throat tightened.
I forced myself to smile.
My son, Noah, was seven, old enough to recognize when I was lying but kind enough not to say it.
He stood next to me, dusty and exhausted, trying his best to look brave.
“We can walk,” he said quietly. “I can carry one bag.”
That almost broke me.
“No,” I whispered. “You’ve done enough.”
We had spent hours waiting on the shoulder of a deserted interstate outside Tucson. Cars passed in bursts of chrome and heat, but not one stopped. Autos& Vehicles
Then, finally, one did.
A black sedan slowed beside us, polished and sleek, looking completely wrong on that dusty stretch of road.
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