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“They’re here,” she says.
I fling open the door. “Have them pull the car into the barn. It’s around the back.”
She nods once and briskly walks to the door.
My heart is pounding as I glance out the side window. A car sits next to mine, headlights off. Jewel goes out there and says something to the driver. Before the car moves, the doors open, and I turn away. I’m nervous; seeing them makes it real.It is real, you idiot,I tell myself.And you got yourself into this.
I open the back door and a tall woman with long dreads walks in, two redheads who must be twins, a girl who doesn’t look old enough to be a prison escapee...and last of all, Gwen. Her hair is no longer than her shoulders; it climbs out from beneath her hat, a mass of wiry curls. She’s thin, very thin—like she hasn’t had a real meal in months. She catches me staring at her chapped lips and she lifts a hand to touch them.
“The perils of a fugitive,” she says, half smiling.
I blink, embarrassed. I hadn’t meant to stare. She’s still beautiful.
“I’m Phoenix.” I step back to give them more room.
The one with dreads speaks up first. “I’m Cardi.” She points to the twins. “Kelsy and Khan.” And she puts her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “This is Tahira. And you probably recognize Gwen.”
I nod. We stand there timidly for a moment, staring at each other. There are questions, things that we all want to say and ask, but I can see the exhaustion pulling on their faces.
Gwen glances at Jewel and puts her hand on my arm. “We all know the risk involved with hiding us here—for both of you—and we are so grateful. And we will keep everything as we find it.” She eyes Tahira when she says that, and the girl smirks then leans her head over on Gwen’s shoulder.
“You must be exhausted,” I say quickly. “I’ll show you to your rooms. My closest neighbor is a mile away, but with the hovercrafts over this area, I would ask that you stay inside and keep the blinds closed.” They all nod briskly.
“There’s food in the fridge,” I say to Jewel. “If you could get something ready…”
She nods. I lead the way, the trail of fugitives behind me.
Later when the women are in bed, I wander into the living room, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I sit on the couch, dropping my head into my hands. Too wound up to sleep, I recount the happenings of the day from Jackal to the very dangerous position I just placed myself in.
“Rough day?”
I jump. Gwen is standing in the doorway wrapped in my grandmother’s quilt. She sits down opposite me, tucking her feet under her legs. I don’t know what to say to someone like Gwen; my existence is shallow, the events of my life meaningless. We are roughly the same age, but she’s done more with her years than most women three times her age.
“I can’t sleep,” I admit. “You?”
“I’m not really good at it anymore.”
I press my lips together. I can’t imagine someone in her position would be.
“Is it okay that I have this out here?” She holds up the quilt.
“Of course. My grandmother would love that you’re using it. I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”
“I am already. You’re a generous person to welcome us like this. Thank you.” She looks around the room. “So you’re that ballerina,” she says, changing the subject. “What’s that like?”
“Probably the same as it is for you,” I say. “Being famous for something you didn’t intend to be famous for.”
“I doubt that,” she says. “You have to work pretty hard to be doing what you do.”
I shrug. “I’m good at it. I don’t love it.”
She nods like she knows just what I mean. She’s intimidating in the same way a storm is: you can feel her energy, but the extent of what she will do is unpredictable.
“May I ask you something personal?”
She smiles faintly. “Is there anything personal left to know about me?”
“Folsom,” I say. “You fell in love.”
