Page 127 of The Five Year Lie

Buzz settles on me again and sleeps until our next transfer in Harrisburg, at seven a.m., where we have an hour to wait.

“They have food here?” Buzz says, pointing at a darkened fast-food counter.

“It’s closed,” I say gently. “It’s too early for hamburgers anyway. Hey—want a granola bar?” I dig into his pack where I’ve hidden them and produce the box.

He eats one like he’s starving and then asks for another one. And I’ve already broken all my rules, so I hand it right over. I eat the last one and throw away the box.

We brush our teeth in another public bathroom and get back on the bus.

The next stretch feels long. Longer than being in labor for tenhours. I haven’t slept in more than twenty-four hours, and I’m tired all the way down to the bone.

Buzz is done with the bus ride. He’s done with me. I read him both the picture books I managed to bring. Twice. But then he’s done with those, too. He kicks the seat in front of ours. I tell him not to.

Rinse. Repeat.

“Can I have your phone?” he asks suddenly.

“No, baby. I don’t have it. I mean it.”

“WHY?” he yells. “That’s so stupid.”

“It’s broken, so I left it in...” I almost sayMaine. But of course I don’t want anyone to know where we’re from. “I left it at home. Want to play a game?”

“Okay.”

“We have to find something out the window from every single color on the wheel. In order. What color comes first?”

“Red,” he announces.

“That’s my boy. Let’s find something red.”

This keeps his interest for, oh, four minutes. But after green and blue are just too easy, he says “I don’t like this game. Can I have another granola bar?”

“We ate them all. But at lunchtime we’ll get off the bus and find you a burger.”

“Okay. Cool.”

He asks me every five minutes after that if we’re there yet.

Eighty-seven years later, the bus pulls into Pittsburgh. We don’t have to transfer buses, but there’s a three-hour stopover.Hallelujah. “We’re going to walk around,” I announce. “We’ll go to the bathroom, too. Brush our teeth. Get some lunch.”

“Can’t we just go home? We could go to the splash pool.”

There’s a pain right behind my breastbone as I picture Zain sitting carefully down at my side and rolling up his pants like he’d never seen water before. That was about two weeks ago. It feels like a lifetime.

I shake my head.

“Why,Mama? I want to gohome.”

I swallow thickly and pull my pack off the floor and into my lap. “I’m sorry. Let’s see what there is to see in Pittsburgh.” We’re going to need some funds, so I unzip the slim pocket of my backpack where I’ve kept my valuables.

And it’s empty.

I draw back and look at the backpack again, in case I’m in the wrong pocket. But no. There’s just nothing here. Tasting bile, I plunge my hand into the pocket, all the way to the bottom. Nothing.

“Let’s go,” Buzz says as people file past us off the bus.

“One second!” Frantic now, I open the main compartment and fish around. No envelope. No wallet.