“Stop the car!”

Master of the wheel once more, Rayla accelerates the vehicle to eighty, eighty-five, ninety miles per hour, the potholes zipping past at light speed.

“She’s going to fall out!” Ava yells over the gale-force winds. She reaches out for me, her fingertips nipping at my collar and sleeves, straining to pull me from the open door and the road that can lead me south. The only direction that connects me to my father.

“We’re going the wrong way!” I repeat, the winds drawing me closer to the blur of black pavement.

“Get back in your seat, now!” Rayla orders. “You’re not leaving this car!”

I do not comply. Rayla increases our speed.

Ninety-five. One hundred.

I can’t jump. But I can’t abandon him.

“Stop the car!” Ava cries, her left hand clamped around my forearm, her right madly frisking the center console for the buttons that control the transmission.

“We can’t just let him die!” I rasp into the violent air, battling to breathe.

Rayla stabs her finger at the dashboard, and the car lurches to a sudden stop. The tires shriek as Rayla jerks the wheel and cuts a hard right, tossing me like a ragdoll against the opposite door.

Everything falls silent and goes still. The dirt and dust settle—on my shoes, the headrests, on the umbrellas scattered across my stomach—and I’m stunned into inaction. I look out the open door, the car positioned smack in the center of the road.

Rayla twists her body and turns her eyes on me. “The cause is greater than you. It’s greater than your father.”

I gaze dully at the southern horizon, counting the strips of clouds stained by the setting sun.

“The United States was once the most idolized superpower in the world. Our power lay in our equality, our liberty, and our democracy of the common people,” Rayla says, her quiet words emanating strength, drawing Ava even closer. “And look what we’ve become.”

She pauses, triggering a wave of images behind my eyes. The first person I see is the homeless man from the train, then Lucía, then my mother. Or is that my mother’s twin? I try to blink them away—I do not want to see any more—but then my father’s ruined face appears. Blinking out his message.

“We’ve allowed our country to deteriorate into a military state. We’ve allowed ourselves to be monitored, controlled, ruled unchecked by the corrupt elite—subservient to leaders like Roth and his State Guard.”

The only way of life I’ve ever known. Or ever will know.

“They will always have the power,” Ava says. “They have the guns.”

“But we have the both of you.”

My father vanishes from my sight, and Rayla stares me dead in the eyes.

“Your very existence as twins is a living rebellion. Together your faces can symbolize a revolution.”

Ava breathes heavily—her chest moving up and down, up and down—taking it all in.

“The US is dried up and dying. All it needs is that one spark, and change can spread like wildfire.”

Rayla’s face softens as she touches Ava’s hand. And mine. She looks at me now not as a former rebellion leader, but as my grandmother. Or as close to that role as she can manage.

“Your father wants a better future for you both. He is a brave man.”

I turn back to the road that points south—the potholes, the painted lines, the horizon all disappearing into the dusk. I feel the spotlight on me as they wait for my response.

Shoving the rucksacks and umbrellas to the floor, I crawl across the seat, and pull the door shut with an unsatisfying bang.

I hear a final sharp click.

Locking me in.

AVA

I can only see three feet in front of me.

Thick clouds cloak this isolated back road in darkness, shrouding what lies ahead, the harsh yellow headlights revealing the last of our journey in quick, shallow increments.

Leaning against the headrest, I angle my neck to watch Mira through the rearview mirror. She lies across the backseat, unmoving, her eyes closed, shutting me out. I pay close attention to her hands. They rest folded over her chest, laced tightly together, but at any moment I fear her fingers will twitch, restless to pull up the lock again.

A piercing light cuts through the dark, and I see a warning sign zoom past my window: “Checkpoint 1/2 Mile. Prepare to Stop.”

“A checkpoint?” I cry out, horrified.

“What?” Mira shoots forward. “You said these rural roads don’t have a Border Guard!” she shouts at Rayla.

Metal road barriers make it impossible for a U-turn escape. Rayla has no choice but to pull in behind a short line of cars.

“Dammit,” she curses angrily under her breath.

Massive floodlights ahead illuminate a makeshift military station—dozens of Guards, a pack of canines, and surveillance cameras in every direction. You will be caught, and you will pay for your crimes, Roth’s cold promise echoes in my mind, turning my thoughts to ice.

This trap was set for us.

Throwing my arms over my head, I duck down in the cramped space underneath the dashboard. Oh God, it’s over. We’re caught. And they’re going to take Mira away from me.

“Get in the trunk.”

Rayla’s fiery order jolts me into action. I desperately lunge for the back of the car, but Mira doesn’t move. She sits frozen as I fold down the middle seat to expose an entryway into the compact trunk. Is she thinking of giving herself up?

“Get in, Mira!” I plead, throwing our bags in first.

The car inches forward in line, every second bringing us closer and closer to detection by the soldiers, the cameras, or the dogs. The canines must know my scent.

Rayla turns to Mira, a dark look of warning in her hard eyes, and I grab hold of Mira’s wrist, imploring her to move. A decision flicks across her face, and she plunges into the opening. I dive in after her and seal ourselves into claustrophobic darkness with fumbling, shaky hands.

Mira and I huddle close together in a ball, limbs overlapping, foreheads pressed together. For a moment all I hear are our fast, terrified breaths and the pounding of my sister’s heart.

Then the car advances once more before it glides to a stop.

I’m able to catch the muted sounds of a soldier’s heavy footsteps followed by the hum of a window rolling down.

“Why hello there, soldier!” I hear Rayla say in a cheerful voice. “I’m surprised to meet you all the way out here.”

“Present your wrist,” the Guard states robotically.

“Of course, of course,” Rayla responds, upbeat and casual.

“Clear your face for the cameras.”

“My apologies, soldier! An old woman’s forgetfulness.” I hear my grandmother release a pleasant chuckle. “At my age, it’s amazing the things that simply vanish from your head. Poof! Gone.”

An actress in her past life. A rebellion member, I think with sudden pride. I visualize Rayla removing her wide-brimmed fedora, a broad smile on her face, while the Guard bends his knees to peer into the empty backseat. Searching. Calculating.

Rayla continues her mindless banter, assaulting the soldier’s patience, hoping he will surrender out of sheer annoyance.

“Is that a German shepherd? Oh, I just love dogs! My mother would tell me stories of how her family used to own one as a pet. Can you imagine that? Some absurd name like Marshmallow . . . or was it Smooches?”