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“It is. I’m off in ten minutes, actually.” I’m not sure what’s more surprising—that she knows my roster or that she’s offering me a lift. I can’t afford a car, and given the nature of my departure six years ago, not to mention my radio silence in the years since, my parents’ lack of warmth on my return was hardly surprising. I wasn’t about to ask for any favors. When I got a job, I fixed up my old bicycle and accepted the ten-kilometer ride into town without complaint. This is the first time Mum’s offered to drive me anywhere since my return.

“Excellent. We can put your bike in the tray back.” Mum takes a seat on a barstool, crossing her legs as primly as if she were sipping cocktails at the Ritz. “Well, I’ll just have a glass of chardonnay while I wait, then. ”

“A chardy, huh?”

It’s a day of fucking wonders, this one.

“Special occasion I don’t know about?” I pour her a glass.

“Goodness, Abby.” Mum sips the wine primly. “I do drink, you know.”

“Of course you do.”

Once in a blue fucking moon.

I pinch my lips to stop myself grinning. “Just let me finish up here, and I’ll be ready to go.”

It’s half an hour before Mum actually finishes her lone glass of wine. I’m tempted to have one myself, but I don’t want to push the friendship. It’s past three when I finally leave the Banderos to whatever they’re plotting in the corner and turn the farm utility vehicle onto the main road.

“Thank you for driving.” Mum sits very upright, her hands folded in her lap. “It’s not that I’m drunk at all. I just don’t want to risk a drunk driving charge.”

On one glass? Go hard, Mum.

“Very smart,” I say, stifling another smile. I drive past the small supermarket, stock supplier, and handful of shops and buildings that constitute Leetham, then take a left onto Chalmer’s Lane, the long straight road named after our family.

“Did you do a lot of driving when you were overseas?” Mum stares directly ahead as she asks the question, her tone studiedly casual.

“Oh, not so much.” I try to match her tone. “I couldn’t really afford a car. I mainly just walked or took public transport.”

“Oh.” She turns to look out the window. Unsure what to say, I stay quiet.

“I suppose it would be difficult, anyway,” she says finally. “Driving in Asia.”

Asia? I left for Asia six years ago.

Do they really not know where I was after that?

Of course they don’t. You never told them.A familiar sense ofalienation creeps over me in a cold, lonely wave.And you need to be fucking careful what youdotell them.

“Most people in Thailand ride motorbikes,” I say lightly. “Or scooters.”

“Thailand.” Mum nods. Still staring out of the window, she says, “So that’s where you were, all this time? Thailand?”

Just say yes, Abby.

It would be easier to lie. So much easier.

And it would still be a lie.

I might never have a normal life again. But if I want one, it has to start with the truth.

Or some truth, at least.

“No, I wasn’t always in Thailand.” I turn off at our driveway, heading through the wooden gate posts without bothering to indicate. It’s not like there’s anyone behind me. “I was in South America for a while.”

For three years, in fact, Mum. The first one was a wild year of drug-fueled insanity. The next two were a lot less fun, since I spent them in El Buen Pastor women’s prison in Bogotá.

El Buen Pastor: The Good Shepherd.