We walked through the night. When we came to the edge of the forest, past dawn, we embraced, and for a second everything was back the way it was. Marisol barely showing, brushing against me in that first dark bathroom. Marisol against the pulsing broken lights of the arcade game, giving me the courage to pluck my own teeth from my gums.
We hid in the ditch at the side of the road. It was deep, enough room for us and our things. I was anxious, restless, hot prickles of electricity running over the skin of my bump. Every time a car appeared in the distance Marisol raised her head, squinted. No, she said, ducking back down. Not that one. Not that one.
Eventually a small yellow car came along. It was clean and its number plate indicated a town in the north. This one, Marisol said.
The woman driving screamed to see us moving out in front of her; our dirt-smeared faces, our bulging stomachs, our hands reaching out to tell her stop, stop, stop. It felt good to be the dangerous thing. She swerved the car and almost went off the road, but wrested it back. Marisol went up to the window. She pointed her pistol at the woman, who cringed and shut her eyes.
Wind this down, Marisol said, slamming the window with the heel of her hand. Her ruthlessness was incredible to see. It sent a shard of ice through me, both proud and ashamed.
The woman wound it down. You have to drive us somewhere, Marisol said. Open the doors, quick.
The woman pressed a button and Marisol motioned to me. In, get in, she said.
I picked up our things and opened the car door. Thank you, I said idiotically to the woman. Marisol opened the passenger door and got in next to her.
Drive, she said, and the woman did as she was told.
Marisol switched on the radio. I love this song, she said. She hummed along. I stared at the back of her head. I wondered how many Marisols were contained within her, if there was anything she could not transmit or reflect. The woman looked right ahead at the road.
Sorry about that, Marisol said, all charm again. We just needed your help. We recognized a fellow mother. We knew you’d be on our side. How many children do you have?
One, she said, not looking. Just one.
This is your family? Marisol said, pointing to a small photograph tucked into the pull-down visor on her side of the windscreen. A balding man and the woman and a small girl, with their arms around each other. They were on a beach somewhere. The girl in a red jumper, too big for her. Marisol took the photo to study it more closely and then passed it to me. The woman flinched, but didn’t say anything. I studied the girl’s gapped teeth, the man’s smile. I felt a profound, murderous jealousy.
Marisol opened the glove compartment. I watched her do it, watched the machinations of her thoughts. The woman’s papers. Her address, her name, her details. I watched her absorb the information, file it away somewhere. The woman was shaking. I could feel it where I sat, uncomfortable, in the back.
You are going to drive us where we need to go, Marisol said. You are not going to tell anybody that we were in your car. If you do, I will come for you. I will come for your child like you came for mine, like you came for hers. Do you understand?
Yes, the woman said.
We are desperate women, Marisol explained. We weren’t always this way. You can understand that.
Maybe, the woman said. Her eyes met mine, briefly, in the rear-view mirror.
I like you, Marisol said, stretching out her legs, fishing out the map from her pocket. Let me show you where you’re driving.