AVA

The night feels close and heavy around us. It’s almost as if we’re wrapped inside a dark blanket with holes poked into it to let in the stars, except without the benefits of a blanket’s warmth and protection. But I don’t mind being cold and exposed—it keeps me alert and moving.

We walk in line once more—Lucía at the end, Mira in the middle, and me at the front leading our quiet progress north. Twenty-seven miles until we reach Kipling. Our bodies rested and sufficiently nourished, we should make it to the second safe house in ten hours with minimal breaks. We just have to keep pushing.

Suddenly the wind brings a faint cry from ahead.

“¿Escucharon eso?” Did you hear that?

Uneasy, I raise a fist to stop the line. I close my eyes and stand perfectly still, listening for anything hiding in the dark.

Nothing at first, but then a series of thin wails. A flash of red flickers across the back of my eyelids. Danger.

“It sounds like an injured animal,” Mira says, moving beside me with her binoculars.

I slide my hand into my pocket and remove my knife.

“We should fall back and loop around downwind,” I breathe just above a whisper. I signal to withdraw, and as we’re pulling back, a shape slowly emerges.

“I think it’s a child,” Mira says, amazed.

I realize it really is a child—a small boy—all bones and filth, stumbling closer to us in the moonlight. His tiny frame barely clothed in rags, he shivers uncontrollably. He’s so malnourished it’s difficult to say how old he is by appearance alone.

“Help me,” he moans before bursting into sobs.

To my right, Lucía searches the night, wary.

“No debemos parar aquí.” We shouldn’t stop here.

Tears fall down the boy’s dirt-stained cheeks, and he attempts to wrap his twig-like arms around his waist for warmth.

I hesitate, unsure what to do. Mira holds her water bottle out for the boy. He stops his pitiful howling and rubs a hand over his snotty nose, but he doesn’t take the bottle. He just stares up at Mira with big innocent eyes.

“Are you out here alone?” Mira asks the boy.

The child’s gaze suddenly shifts from my sister’s face to the darkness over her shoulder. A smirk crosses his lips.

There’s someone behind us.

The Guard.

Before I can even think to move, a hand violently covers my mouth. I taste blood slipping down my throat—something hard sliced open my lower lip—and I have to fight to breathe. I jerk my head to the side, sucking enough air into my lungs to let out a muffled scream.

“Shh . . . there’s no need for that,” a raspy voice breathes into my ear.

Not soldiers. Bandits.

Struggling to grip the knife in my hand, I attempt a hasty jab to his stomach, but I’m thwarted immediately. This isn’t the man’s first time. His rough hands twist my wrist until I scream again, my palm opening easily for him. He takes the blade and presses it to my throat with a threatening growl.

“I told you not to scream.”

My rucksack ripped from my shoulders, I feel his heavy body replace it, pressing tight against my back. The man is three times my size, his hairy arms locked around me like unbreakable shackles. I can’t move an inch.

Panic takes over. My vision flickers in and out of focus as I struggle to grasp hold of a plan—any plan at all—to get us out of this. Two men drag my sister and Lucía at knifepoint in front of me, and my vision narrows.

Mira!

Our eyes lock for a single agonizing moment. I watch—immobile, useless—as my sister fights against the arms that bind her. She pushes and pulls with all the strength she possesses. But it’s not enough. The brutish man who holds her just smiles, his dark eyes crinkling with amusement.

“You don’t have to put on a show, pretty,” he mocks. “You’ve already got my attention.”

He drags his lips across her cheek, and a powerful rage ignites inside my chest. The decoy child resumes his pathetic crying somewhere outside the circle.

“Shut that kid up,” my assailant demands. His relaxed, even voice expects to be obeyed. He must be the ringleader.

Holding Mira’s rucksack, a teenager with a shaved head approaches the child. Taking a large gulp of our water, he briefly pats the boy’s shoulder and drops a handful of our nopales to the ground. The boy quiets his howling and greedily dives for them.

Lucía doesn’t struggle against her captor. The older boy—who looks like a starving blonde bull with a silver ring through his septum—rips through her pockets without resistance. She just stands there, eyes closed, lips mumbling incoherent words under her breath.

“He’s not listening, mamí—whoever you’re praying to.” Her captor laughs loudly and sucks on one of the nopales he took from her pocket, the juice trickling down his chin.

My assailant ignores him and runs his hands down my body in his own search, his fingers lingering under the waistline of my pants. He finds the map—shit—and pockets it.

“What else do you have hidden down there?” he asks me, caressing the top of my underwear.

I jerk forward angrily and see my sister’s captor slip his filthy hands underneath the collar of her shirt to grope her breasts.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like the way he’s touching her?” my captor taunts, cupping my cheek gently. He blows his sour breath against my neck and slides his calloused hands along the curves of my body, stopping between my legs.

“Is this how you like it?” he whispers in my ear.

Every part of my body—my entire being—recoils against his touch. I snap my head away from his mouth and see Mira’s captor kissing her neck while she struggles to escape. But all she can do is close her eyes.

Fire burns hot in my belly, spreading into my limbs, making me feel dangerous and powerful. He needs to take his hands off my sister now. If he doesn’t, I won’t be able to stop my heel from plowing into my captor’s groin, freeing myself to tear the smile from his face with my bare hands. Screw not having a weapon. My rage is my weapon.

That will do nothing for her. He’ll cut your throat first.

The brute comes up for air. “Hey, Carlos, this girl kinda looks like that bitch the Guard is after.”

Mira attempts to keep her head low, but his dirty fingers grab her chin, forcing her to expose her full face.

No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . . no . . .

My protest bubbles hopelessly into my throat—it’s me, not her!—when I’m shoved roughly to the teenage boy. The back of my head collides painfully with the binoculars he has raised to his face, stolen from Mira’s bag. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around me, but his grip lacks the eagerness shared by his cohorts.

Carlos scrutinizes Mira’s grimy, sunburnt face. Her lips tremble uncontrollably above the blade at her throat as the man carefully takes in the black eyeliner smudged across her cheeks, the cropped blonde hair, and the wrong-colored eyes.

“I’m not that girl,” Mira says, her voice soft but firm.

With alarming speed, Carlos serves a brutal punch to her stomach. “I didn’t say you could speak,” he growls.

Mira bowls over, painfully gasping for air.