Page 34 of Exiled

Iwake in our bed. Covered in blankets, still naked. A glance tells me it’s after eight in the morning, and—

I barely make it to the bathroom.

After rinsing my mouth and brushing my teeth, I look at myself in the mirror. Front view, side view. Palm on my stomach. My still-flat stomach. I know nothing about such things. If I am—if... God, I still cannot even think it to myself—when I know, just by looking at myself in the mirror?

How do I find out for sure? I have no identification. No money. If I am ever to have any independence, I must have these things. I don’t think Logan realizes. That I don’t have an ID, that I’ve never had my own finances. Or how much I want those things.

I shower, wash away the evidence of last night. I smile to myself, thinking of that.

I am dressed, scrubbing my hair dry, and there’s a knock at the door. Cocoa, lying on the floor of the bedroom, lifts her head off her paws, growls low in her throat. Hackles rise at her shoulders. She stands up, slowly, lithely, in a move that reminds one she is descended from predators. She prowls to the frontdoor, growling. I follow her, put a hand on her collar, and peek through the peephole.

A man in a brown uniform, holding a large square envelope. There’s a truck parked in the street, emergency flashers blinking,UPSwritten on the side.

Another knock.

I open the door, holding on to Cocoa’s collar, but loosely. I trust her to protect me. She’s leaning against my knees, putting herself in front of me. Growling at the deliveryman, who glances down at her, nervous. I would be, were I on the other side of a growling, distrustful Cocoa.

“Isabel de la Vega?”

“Yes. How can I help you?”

He hands me the package, then extends a device with a screen and a small stylus. “Sign on the line, please.”

“What is this?”

“Package for Isabel de la Vega. All I know.”

“Who is it from?”

“It’s from someone named...” A glance at the top left corner of the label, and then the package is handed back to me. “Caleb Indigo.”

I take the stylus and sign my name, slowly, carefully.

“Have a nice day, ma’am.” And then the carrier jogs to the street and is gone in a rumble of diesel fumes.

I stand in the open doorway, staring at the package.

From you.

What is it? What could you possibly be sending me? I almost don’t want to open it. But I must.

I close the door, move as if in a dream to the kitchen island. Set the package down. Find the tab on the back side and pull it open. Reach in, withdraw a small pile of papers. The paper on top is white, and smells old. There are three words across the top:Acta de Nacimiento.

Birth Certificate.

I see my name. My father’s name. My mother’s. The whole thing, naturally, is in Spanish, but I somehow translate everything without even thinking. Without trying. My brain just... does it. How bizarre.

The next item is a small blue card withSocial Securityacross the top. My name, and a number, three digits, a dash, two digits, another dash, and four more digits.

My social security card?

The next item is larger, square, white paper with black inked designs printed around the edges. Across the top isThe United States of America, and beneath that isCertificate of Naturalization, the first two words and the third separated by a gold leaf image of the U.S. seal. In the bottom left corner is a small photograph of me. Young, fourteen. Long black hair braided and hanging over my shoulder. A shy smile. That damned blue dress, I can tell I’m wearing it in the photo, by the hint of my shoulders visible. The damned blue dress. There is my signature, near the top. Neat, careful; the way I signed for the package.

Holding these items, I half expect to have a flashback, a memory. But... there is nothing.

There is a money order made out to the Commissioner of Motor Vehicles in the amount of fourteen dollars.

One last item flutters out of the package when I upend it. A small scrap of yellow paper, torn from a legal pad. The handwriting is beautiful. Perfect. Uppercase letters, slanted a bit, each letter printed so neatly it is almost calligraphy. But the words are scrawled diagonally across the scrap of paper, completely disregarding the ruled lines, meaning the note was scribbled quickly, dashed and torn off.