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It smells of dirt and fertilizers, but I reign it in as I cover myself with the piece of cloth. The truck comes only once a week and it makes two stops. One at the fields and the other at the garage.
My breathing hitches as the truck moves then soon stops at the garage. The moment the man hops down and goes inside, I search my surroundings before doing the same.
I retrieve my cats’ cages, hide them under the oversized cloth and then join them. “We’re going to be okay,” I soothe them when Mr. Bingly starts to whine.
At the exit, the guards stop us. My heartbeat skyrockets as I place a hand over my mouth to suppress any sound.
The guard and the driver talk in Italian, but they’re mostly asking about each other’s family.
I don’t release the breath I’ve been holding until the truck leaves the property. I resist the urge to peek from beneath the cloth and have one last glance at the place.
Something tells me I’ll never forget it. It’ll be that permanent dent in my life. The type I’ll never get off my chest.
“What are you looking at?” I whisper at my cats. “You’re wrong. I don’t miss it already.”
We go on for what seems like forever. When the driver stops at a public restroom, I take my cats, the small messenger bag and hop off.
At first, I run away as far as I can. Then, I ask a lady in Italian how to get to Palermo. I don’t have my passport or enough money. My stash is cat food, bread, and some Euros I stole from Jasper’s pocket before he left.
My only chance to go back is to go to the embassy, but from the maps I managed to Google on one of the workers’ phones in secret, the US embassy is in Rome and that’s too far from here. But there’s a consular agency in Palermo. If I get there, they can take me to the embassy and send me home.
The lady stares at me, probably because of my accent, and I freeze, thinking maybe she’ll call Enzo or one of the people at the farm. Jasper never let me out of there, but there could be a word going on about me?
“Città di Palermo?” she asks.
“Si, si.” I smile trying to appear innocent.
Apparently, this place is near Catania and is in the south and Palermo is in the far north. The woman gives me directions to a bus station.
I’m on the edge of myself every time anyone looks at me for too long. Whether it’s the ticket man or the people at the station. I know it’s because of the cats, but I keep looking behind me expecting someone to catch me. I spend a few more Euros on sunglasses at a cheap shop and pull the hoodie over my head.
Thankfully, the bus doesn’t take long, and the cats are allowed since they’re in their cages.
The attendant keeps repeating that dogs need muzzles. I’m too stressed to tell her there’s no dog, so I just nod.
The trip takes around three hours. Three hours of nail-biting and looking over my shoulders and feeding or petting the cats whenever they get anxious.
It isn’t until I’m in front of the Consular building that I release a breath.
I barge inside, my fingers shaking. The receptionist, a young man with blond hair and blinding white teeth, smiles at me. “Welcome to the United States Consular Agency, may I help you?”
“Yes.” I gulp. “I want to go home.”Things go smoothly.
I keep watching over my shoulder, expecting Enzo or one of Jasper’s men to catch up to me and find me.
They don’t.
Instead, the people in the agency prepare me a ticket to Chicago. I thought they had to take me to Rome or at least make me wait until they get me the passport, but I find myself on a plane the same day. It’s first-class, too.
I nearly cried as I watched Sicily’s buildings in the distance, but then I recalled why I’m doing this and why I had to leave.
The flight takes more than a day. We stop in Rome then in London. The cats are restless by the time I pick them up at Midway airport.
I’m so exhausted; I want to lie down and sleep. I stop near the exit, remembering I’ve been away for months. I surely lost the lease to my apartment and my job. So I’m basically penniless and homeless.
Damn it.
I should call the bank and get a credit card and some money for living expenses.
It’s past five, though. Dropping on the airport chair, I sigh, scratching under Mrs. Hudson’s chin through the cage. “Looks like we’re staying the night here, babies.”
The few euros I have left will hardly be able to get us any food. Wait. Will I be able to convert them without a passport?
