SHE WOKE IN THE PITCH DARK, ON THE BOTTOM BUNK AGAINST the hostel wall. Someone was hunched over her in the compressed space, touching her breasts. Warm, rank breath. She was in the shed again, heard the voice in the dark, her arms were heavy and bound behind her. No. She reached and grabbed the groping arms and flung them away. Lukas said, “Baby, baby,” and his pale hands floated out of the shadow.
She grabbed him by the bicep and threw her weight, and Lukas banged into the concrete wall, grunting. She rolled out of the bed.
“Hey—”
She hissed at him in Spanish: “I could have killed you.”
“Luz, hey.”
She needed to get away, to keep on the move. She’d kept her clothes packed, and she knew where the bag was in the dark. She slipped on her sneakers and left the hostel. She started jogging on the damp cobblestone. Her ghost runner kept pace.