Page 128 of The Five Year Lie

Oh my god. I’ve kept this bag in my sight the entire time. Except when it was on my back.

Then I think back to New York, where I was jostled in the aisle. To the man who stabilized my pack, pretending to help me. He stole it all. He and the other guy, who pretended to get mad.

They must have glimpsed my cash when I retrieved my tickets.

They were working together.

A wave of horror rushes through my body. I’ve been so, so stupid.

Ithankedthat man who robbed me.

“Mama!”

“Just aminute!” I’m frantically searching my pack one more time. As if I could have moved that money and my wallet and somehow let it slip my mind.

I search Buzz’s pack, too. In the bottom, I find a small bag of raisins, which he hates. It’s probably been there for months. But I also find four dollar bills and some change that I crammed into an outside pocket one day at the Children’s Museum when someone gave us change at the snack bar.

Four dollars and thirty-seven cents. That’s all the money we have.

46

I buy Buzz a Happy Meal with the last of my money. Then we board another bus.

The afternoon passes in a haze. My stomach is so empty it feels like it’s folding in on itself. And in spite of my nerves, I can’t keep my eyes open. But every time I hear Buzz’s voice, or the driver’s, I snap awake, heart pounding.

Around six p.m., Buzz tells me he’s hungry again. I fish out that bag of raisins, expecting him to turn them down.

But he eats every single one.

I wad up the bag and shove it in the same pocket where my money used to be.

Buzz flops around in his seat. “Mama,pleeeeeease? I want to go home.”

“I know, baby.” The guilt I’m choking on makes it hard to get the words out. “But I’m looking for a friend.”

“Can we justgo?”

I shake my head. There’s no way I can make this make sense for him.

He kicks the seat in front of him, and a gray-haired woman turns around and gives us a glare.

“Buzzy,” I say, my voice dripping with exhaustion. “Want to read one of our books again?”

“NO.”

I catch his leg as he tries to kick it again. “Okay. What if I told you a story about your daddy?”

He goes immediately still. “Really?”

“Yeah.” I take a big breath. “You’re not a baby anymore. I bet you’d like to hear about him.”

His mouth falls open, and he nods immediately.

“Okay. I met him at work—at the office where I still go every day.”

“Before he died?” Buzz clarifies.

“Right. And before you were born.”