When you step out, the heat hits you like a furnace door thrown open.
She cannot be older than twelve. Blond hair, though so matted with dust and sweat it looks almost gray. Thin shoulders. Bare feet cut open by rock and sand. One calf streaked with dried blood. She clutches the straps of the backpack with both hands, like someone might steal it even now, out here on an empty ribbon of road with only cacti, scrub brush, and miles of shimmering silence.
Then you hear it.
A soft, broken sound from inside the bag.
Not an animal. Not wind catching fabric. A tiny, desperate cry.
The noise goes through you like a blade.
The girl startles at the sight of you and stumbles backward. Her eyes are a color you would once have called blue, except fear has widened them so much they look silver in the sun. You raise your hands instinctively, palms out, the universal signal for I’m not here to hurt you, though you suddenly realize you have no right to assume she believes in such signals anymore.
Leave a Comment