Benicio stood beside the car and watched the traffic moving through the customs booths. There was a steady lineup of cars going in and out of Canada.
He’d driven through the night, stopping only for gas, the washroom, and snacks. Matthew had had only a bag of Doritos and a small carton of chocolate milk. The rest of the time the boy slept.
Benicio wasn’t sure how they would get across the border; if the customs official asked for identification, he and Matthew would be detained.
They probably don’t even allow rental cars across the border without some special permit. They’ll probably stop us and search the vehicle.
Then Benicio noticed a lane dedicated to truckers, extra-wide and almost hidden by a parade of semitrailers. It gave him an idea. Not necessarily a good idea, but an idea nonetheless.
He turned to the car, opened the passenger door and crouched down.
“Hey,” he said quietly, “do you want to get out for a bit? Stretch your legs or go for a bathroom break?”
Matthew didn’t answer.
Benicio looked around. They were at the far end of the parking lot near the duty-free shop. The last chance to buy before crossing the border. He didn’t want people watching when he tried to deal with Matthew.
“Do you want to get out for a bit?” he asked again.
Matthew turned stiffly and swung his legs out of the car. Benicio backed away to give him room, and the boy stood on the pavement.
“There you go,” Benicio said warmly. “That must feel better.”
Matthew began walking toward the front of the vehicle.
“Do you want to use the washroom?” Benicio asked.
Matthew stopped in front of the car and undid his pants. He began urinating on the ground.
“Whoa,” Benicio called. “Che fai? What are you doing?”
A motor home pulled up near them, and a middle-aged man poked his head out the driver’s window. “Hey buddy, do you know a good place —” He stopped abruptly when he noticed Matthew. “Is that kid taking a leak right there?”
“I’m sorry. He’s a little different.”
“I’d say he’s a lot different,” the man said. “That boy’s too old to be pissin’ out here when the facility is just right on over there.”
“My apologies. My son is autistic.”
The man didn’t have a response to this. From somewhere inside the motor home, a voice yelled, “Leave the poor man alone and let’s get going!”
The motor home driver gave Matthew a disapproving frown, and the big vehicle drove away.
Matthew was doing up his pants. Benicio ran a hand through his hair. I need to find a phone, he thought. Time to call Jake.