Page 10

MOST OF THE stores at Peachtree Battle Shopping Center were closed. It was nine o’clock on a Saturday night, after all. But Blockbuster was still open, its blue and yellow sign tempting moths with its neon glow, and so was Peaches, the record store where Willow picked up the occasional shift.

Willow pushed through the glass door and was immediately hit with the sweet relief of air-conditioning.

It was late. The sun had set. But it was the South, and temperatures in Atlanta didn’t change much when nighttime rolled around.

And the humidity? Yeah, no, the humidity never dropped.

Atlanta’s humidity was more constant than her parents.

Also, Willow had walked to Peaches rather than take her car, a golf-ball-yellow Beemer given to her on her sweet sixteenth. Cars had license plates. Plates could be tracked. Willow—just Willow, without any microchips, cochlear implants, or prosthetic wings—could not.

“Willow! Hey, hey!” called James from the back of the store. He was sorting records. Maybe. Probably just admiring the cover art. “What’s up, girl?”

“Not much,” Willow said. She leaned against the front counter. “Grabbed dinner at Jalisco’s with some friends, but they’re off to see a movie, and I wasn’t feeling it. Can I use the phone to call a cab?”

“Sure,” James said. He checked his watch. “Or you can keep me company for another hour. I can give you a ride home when I’m off.”

Willow smiled and scrunched her nose, employing the “cute” face she used when she had to let a boy down.

It was such a tedious dance. This for that, tit for tat, and girls never had the power.

Guys assumed they did because, after all, wasn’t it the girl’s choice whether to offer up her lips, her hips, her body, her soul?

Baby, you’re giving me blue balls. C’mon, bitch, you know you want it. Don’t be a prick tease.

“That’d be fun, but I’m beat,” she said.

She yawned and covered her mouth with the back of her hand, another gift of cuteness.

Then she stepped behind the counter, lifted the phone from the cradle, and punched in the number for Yellow Cab, which was printed on a sticky note taped beneath the cash register.

James abandoned the records in the Y -through- Z section and joined Willow at the front of the store, hovering awkwardly while she talked to the dispatcher and arranged for a ride. When she hung up, there James was, standing too close and smelling too strongly of Aqua Velva.

“Maybe another time?” he said hopefully.

Willow frowned. Maybe another time... he could give her a ride home? Okay, James. Whatever, James.

But she felt generous, knowing there wouldn’t be another time. “Sure.”

He grinned. “All right, yeah. Cool.”

“Cool.” Willow glanced over her shoulder at the mostly vacant parking lot and was thrilled to see a boxy yellow sedan pull in, its suspension groaning and one of its rear hubcaps hanging on for dear life.

She turned back to James, hiked the straps of her backpack into a more comfortable position, and said, “Well, James, it’s time to blow this taco stand. See ya!”

Willow’s taxi driver was a square-jawed man who smelled like smoke and had a wibble-wobble hula dancer affixed to the center of the dashboard.

Her tiny waist swayed hypnotically with every turn, and her miniature breasts bounced in perky rhythm, barely concealed by a few plastic petals. Why, oh why, were men so gross?

At least he wasn’t a talker. She gave him Miriam’s address, he grunted, and that was that.

The city lights fell away as they crossed into Roswell, replaced by stretches of dark road and towering trees that pressed in from both sides.

Streetlamps grew sparse. The houses, when they appeared, sat back from the road like they were hiding—big lots, long driveways, too much space between everything.

It felt more like a forest with houses than a neighborhood.

Half a mile or so from their destination, they’d passed a Greyhound station—a squat, windowless structure with flickering lights and a handful of people sitting outside on a long bench.

Willow had craned her neck to stare. She’d never seen a bus station up close.

It’d struck her as sad and foreign, like something from a movie about runaways.

Then she’d remembered that she was a runaway. At that, she’d felt a surge of adrenaline and had decided that the bus station held a certain gritty allure. Not for her, necessarily, but for the kind of girl who lived on cigarettes and eyeliner.

At Miriam’s house, the cab lurched to a stop in a quiet cul-de-sac. Willow paid the man—and, judging by the way his entire demeanor shifted, no doubt overtipped him.

“Thanks,” he said, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. He gave her a gap-toothed smile. “Much appreciated. But hey, you sure this is where you want to be? Seems a little isolated, if you ask me.”

But she hadn’t asked him. And she found it funny that he was concerned for her welfare now—only after she’d added a twenty to the forty-five dollar fare. He’d pulled into this dim little street without comment. He hadn’t said a word until money had entered the picture.

How much was she supposed to tip a taxi driver, anyway? A thousand dollars wouldn’t last forever. Already, she was sixty-five dollars poorer. Could she ask for the money back?

Nope, because she was moving forward. No more second-guessing her decisions. No more wishing for a do-over.

Willow opened the rear door and unfolded herself from the backseat. “I’m good, thanks.” The driver shrugged and rumbled off.

The moment the cab turned the corner, darkness pressed in.

There were no other cars on the street, no porch lights glowing welcome, no hum of televisions behind drawn curtains.

Just a long curve of houses that all seemed to hold their breath.

Willow stood on the sidewalk, her backpack heavy on her shoulders.

Somewhere, a sprinkler hissed faintly. From the dark cloak of trees, cicadas buzzed.

She took a cautious step toward Miriam’s house, which was large, old, and deeply, thoroughly quiet. Willow didn’t know what she had expected—curtains twitching, perhaps, or a warm square of light glowing from a front window. Something to say, I’m here. I meant it. Come inside.

Instead: nothing.

She climbed the front steps. The porch creaked under her sandals. She raised a hand and knocked once. Then again, harder. Tap-tap-tap.

No answer.

Willow waited, shifting from foot to foot. She knocked again and called softly, “Miriam?”

Her voice disappeared into the stillness.

She pulled out the business card Miriam had given her and stared at the address, as if it might change under her gaze. No, she was in the right place. Miriam had said, Come anytime. Morning or night. Hadn’t she meant it?

Uncertainty spread through her. What if she’d misunderstood? What if the invitation had been... symbolic? The kind of thing people said to be polite but didn’t really mean?

Willow stepped back and peered toward the side windows. No lights. No shadows. No movement.

She tried again, a little louder. “Miriam?” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and added, “It’s me. Willow.”

Still nothing.

She swallowed hard. Her cheeks burned, though no one was there to see. She felt like a girl caught loitering where she didn’t belong, playing at escape when all she’d done was run headlong into another closed door.

She turned to go, blinking fast, then paused when something pale tugged at the corner of her vision.

A shape, low to the ground, was caught in the hydrangea bush at the foot of the porch.

Willow stepped down and crouched. A length of soft gray fabric was hooked on a branch, fluttering just slightly in the evening breeze.

It looked like Miriam’s shawl, the one she’d worn at the party. But why was it here? Had Miriam dropped it? Had it slid from her shoulders without her noticing?

Willow reached for it, wondering if the fabric would be as soft as she’d imagined it would be.

The moment her fingertips met the fabric, a current surged through her.

The air wavered. Her vision swam. She heard a faint silver chime that she knew wasn’t really there.

In her mind, she saw the tarnished silver baby rattle. First the baby rattle, now the shawl?

Only, no, it wasn’t a shawl. The knowledge came to her from a place unknown, but she knew it to be true.

What Willow saw in front of her was a soft gray blanket, and not just any blanket but a baby’s blanket.

It had none of the adornments you’d expect to find on a baby’s blanket.

No silk trim, no embroidered teddy bears, no nubbly marks from being sucked on and loved.

Its elegance had made it possible for Miriam to wear it as a shawl, but it was a blanket, definitely, knitted with love for a baby.

Willow loosened the blanket from the hydrangea bush, taking care not to rip it.

The moment she freed the fabric from the last clutching twig, a great rushing filled her head, and she staggered backward.

Everything went fuzzy. She couldn’t think.

The landscape of Miriam’s neighborhood faded, and Willow fell out of herself.

That was what it felt like. Not backward or down, but sideways into the vast, flat space between breath and silence.

She saw a forest, but she wasn’t in the forest. She was God or an angel or a mote of dust, an onlooker who saw all but couldn’t be seen herself.

A young woman emerged from the forest and strode through the high grass of a meadow, a baby on her hip.

She was Willow’s age or slightly older. Maybe twenty or twenty-one.

There was a hard line to her mouth, and the set of her eyes said she’d stopped waiting for anyone to be kind.

And she was beautiful, this woman. Not in the pretty pastel way of women like Willow’s mother, but with the flare and danger of lightning.