“Did you know your father dealt in the Black Market?” I whisper, my tone a fraction harsher than I meant for it to be.

“No. I obviously didn’t know my dad at all.”

I remember some primary school lesson about glass houses and stones. My father kept an entire world from me. I know what it feels like to be shattered.

“What goods do you think are packed in here with us?” I whisper. “Fish?” I think of Canada’s melted icecaps and their booming fishing industry. My mouth waters.

“If it were fish, we would most definitely smell it.”

All I smell is the rich, woody vanilla of Theo’s leftover cologne. I turn my head and let the conversation fall away.

I spend some time imagining that it’s bottles of my favorite illegal whisky stacked above us. Japanese Nikka. The image brings back a wave of memories, flooding my mind with flashbacks of Ava and Strake and home.

I could use a drink. Hangover be damned.

“What’s it like in America?” Theo interrupts my reverie, his soft breath tickling my ear like an annoying fly. “You know, since it’s my birthplace . . . I figured I should start learning.”

I shrug my shoulders, forgetting he can’t see me. “You’ll find out for yourself.” No words can help him learn. He has to experience it to understand.

“Hey . . . ,” Theo starts, but no words follow. A few minutes pass, and I think he fell asleep. But he stirs, his hot breath back on my skin. “I’m sorry for what my family did to yours.”

“Okay” is all I say. I know he had nothing to do with the death of my mother and father, the fact that my sister and I were chased and exiled from our own country. But he’s guilty by association. By blood.

With no warning at all, a loud bang sounds off above us, and my heart skips a beat.

“Mierda!” Theo curses under his breath in Spanish.

Our container suddenly lifts into the air, and so does my spirit. It’s happening. It’s working.

Calm down, I caution myself. There’s still plenty that could go wrong.

“Halfway there,” Theo whispers shakily, either to comfort me or himself.

“Do you always swear in Spanish?” I ask to keep my mind occupied.

“It’s a habit I picked up when I was young,” Theo answers. I hear the smile in his voice, like he has a thousand stories behind it.

“Does anyone even speak the language in Canada anymore?” I whisper.

“No. But my dad taught me anyway. Guess that should have been my first clue something was off . . .”

I didn’t even feel the ship stop, but we must have arrived at our drop-off point. Somewhere out in the rough, open sea with no eyes to witness this clandestine trade.

If what should be happening is happening, then our containers of illegal wares are being transported to a second vessel.

A ship belonging to the Washington State Border Guard.

Corrupt Guards. My unlikely deliverers.

My stomach flips. My palms start sweating. I barely breathe, worried our Black Market buyers will hear me.

I try not to think about the crane, or whatever machine is transferring us, suddenly malfunctioning or purposely letting go its steel grip and releasing us into the ocean. I clench my fists, hold my breath—like that would help—and wait for the drop.

No, if they know I’m in here, that won’t be how it ends. They wouldn’t waste such valuable goods.

Slowly, I feel us being lowered and placed onto a firm surface. I anticipate shouts, our roof ripped off, guns pointing. But nothing happens. I let out my breath.

Theo’s lips press against my ear. “It worked,” he whispers. “We’re moving.”

A rush of adrenaline surges through me.

We’re on our way toward American soil.

“How long do you think we’ve been in here?” Theo asks, the first time he’s spoken in hours.

It feels like it’s been days. I lift my watch directly against my face, trying to make out the time, but I can’t see anything.

“Too long,” I finally answer. I’m way past stir-crazy.

I wonder where we are. We’re supposed to be in a warehouse on the outskirts of the port city of Tacoma, Washington. All I know for certain is the patrol ship docked, and we were unloaded onto a high-speed transport of some kind and finally dumped onto solid ground where we have remained stationary and quiet for an unknown amount of time.

“It’s time to leave,” I whisper, hoping I sound more calm and confident than I am.

I have to get out. My bladder stings, my stomach growls like a subterranean monster, and my patience has utterly snapped. My bones scream to move, to be let free from this claustrophobic box.

I try and breathe away my rising panic, but I’m filled with a sudden terror we’ve used up all the air.

“I have to get out,” I say, more like shout.

We have to bust out of this coffin and deal with whoever or whatever is on the other side.

As I start to search out the best way how, the roof of our hiding space quivers and slides open. A burst of incandescent light forces my eyes shut in white-hot blindness. My hand dives for the gun inside my rucksack—why don’t I carry it on me?—but before I can unholster the pistol, a familiar voice stops me.

“Good to know I’m not your only bodyguard,” Kano says cheerily.

Peeling open my eyes, I see two thick arms shielding my face and chest. Theo quickly jerks his limbs back to his side of the box and pops up to stand before I can look at him, before I can remind him, Hey, I’m the guard. I’m guarding you.

“Easy, mijo. Go slow,” Alexander says, appearing at his son’s side. “You’ve had a long journey.”

I scoff and get to my feet. Try walking through the Texas desert.

With wobbly legs, I climb from the box and shuffle out of the shipping container and into the cavernous warehouse. The large space is empty except for three other steel containers that make up our criminal cargo.

“Well, that was certainly an experience,” Ciro says behind me. “Most uncomfortable.” He stretches dramatically, walking like a day-old giraffe.

“At least you had your own box,” I say. “That’s first class in my view.”

Shouldering my rucksack, I scan the walls for an exit.

“There are no washrooms in the building. I’ve already checked,” Ciro says, appalled, misreading my desire for privacy. I roll my eyes. This is going to be a very long journey for him.

“We use the great outdoors,” I inform him, looking at my watch. “Ten minutes before departure. We don’t want to be here when the buyers show up.”

“Let’s get a move on!” Kano shouts, rallying the team.

It hurts to turn my neck, my muscles are too stiff, and I have to swivel my entire body to check up on the others. They’re already repacking the crates, making it look like we were never here. I’m tempted to see if we had been traveling with whisky all along, but I don’t. We can’t linger.

The second I’m through the door, I think of Ava.

She’s out here somewhere. We’re in the same state. She could be only miles from me. I could try and find her. Save her from the Guard if I have to.

I’ve done it before with worse odds.

I stop my feet, which have unconsciously led me away from the warehouse. Away from my group and my mission, out toward wherever Ava might be.