I place a hand on my abdomen and suck in a breath.

We’ve been on the road for at least fifteen minutes—a good thing, as it puts more distance between me and the Hotel. If only I didn’t need to urinate so desperately. My bladder is protesting and the truck shows no signs of coming to a stop. Doesn’t this town have any traffic lights?

When the truck comes to a halt, I almost cry out with relief. I’m so ready to get out.

We must be near the sea, because I can hear the sound of waves crashing.

Careful not to be seen in the rearview mirror, I lift my head a few inches, expecting to find cars lined up at a traffic light. My heart drops.

The few cars behind us are parked on the curb in front of one-story brick houses with carpets of manicured lawns in front. This is no temporary stop.

Faced with worse problems, I ignore my bladder. I’d banked on getting off the truck before the driver made it to his final destination.

I haul the blanket over my head, leaving a small opening for my eyes. To my horror, the lights in the house we’re parked in front of go on, and the door opens. A pregnant woman appears in the doorway. Next to her stands a boy of about two or three.

The driver’s door squeaks open and I shrink lower into the bed of the truck.

My eyes are wide open under the blanket, my heartbeats counting the seconds before something happens. Maybe he’ll go straight into the house without coming around to the back of the truck. That would give me plenty of time to clear out. My mind is too much of a mess for me to consider an alternative.

The driver shouts something in Spanish and the woman in the doorway responds with laughter. I squeeze my eyes tight when his footsteps move to the back of the truck.

There’s a commotion near my feet; he must be reaching for whatever object he threw into the truck at the gas station, the one that struck my ankle. The space around me empties as he removes more things from around me. I feel a quick tug, and then my safety blanket is yanked clean from my body.

For the first time since we started our drive together, our eyes meet. He’s somewhere in his late twenties, with a goatee and a bushy ponytail. The expression on his face rapidly transforms from shock to confusion.

I raise a hand to show him I mean no harm. I want to say something, to explain, but fear won’t let go of my throat, making it difficult to get any words out.

“¿Quién eres?” he asks. Despite my limited Spanish, I understand the question.

I swallow hard to open up my throat. “My name is Ivy. Ivy Hollifield. I—”

“What you want?” he asks in English.

“A ride… that’s all. I just needed a ride. My husband is after me. He’s dangerous.” Maybe this man and his family can offer me shelter. “I need help.”

The man lowers his gaze to my other hand, the one stretched out next to my body. My fingers are wrapped around the knife I stole from the hotel. One half of the blade is covered by the dish towel, and the exposed area is glinting in the light of the moon and streetlamps. I cover it up but it’s too late.

“Fuera de aquí!” His voice is edged with ice. I don’t understand the words, but his body language conveys his meaning perfectly. He’s not going to give me a chance to explain. He must believe I’m some kind of criminal. I don’t blame him.

I scramble to my feet, and without giving him a chance to do or say anything else, I climb over the edge of the truck bed.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is smothered in tears. Then I scamper off into the night.

As I weave my way through the streets of an unknown town late at night, a pebble digs into the sole of my foot. It’s not the first. I wince but continue walking. I wish I hadn’t forgotten my shoes in the dumpster. Then again, how far would stilettos have been able to get me?

I have no idea where I’m going, or what awaits me at the next corner. But I can’t stop now. I need to find a place to hide, to rest.

I run my hands up and down my arms, creating friction to warm my skin. The balmy air has cooled. I crave a hot shower more than anything.

After walking down the deserted street past several closed shops, I spot a liquor store. A muscular woman with pigtails is squeezed into the doorway, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curls around her face. She blows out another puff of smoke, and to my surprise, gives me a small wave.

Talking to a stranger is risky, but I need help, unless I plan on spending the entire night walking.

“Hello.” I take a few timid steps toward her. “Do you speak English?”

She gives me a toothless grin. “Inglés... un poco.” She tosses her cigarette onto the ground and crushes it with the tip of her snakeskin boot. She’s a strange-looking woman, no older than thirty, with big muscles and pink ribbons in her hair. Her nails are also painted bright pink. But who am I to judge?

“Can you help me, please?”

“I help you.” She doesn’t take a step back, isn’t repulsed by my smell. She stretches out a hand and I shake it, tears flooding my throat. She might just be bored and in need of someone to talk to, but her small gesture of kindness means everything to me.

“Is there a motel around here?” I take my time with each word to ensure she catches everything I’m saying.

“Motel?” The woman places a finger on her pink lips.

“Yes, a motel.” I bring my palms together and press the side of my head against my hands. “For sleeping.”

“Aaaah.” Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Motel. Yes, yes. I know motel.”

Given the language barrier, it takes about ten minutes for her to explain to me where the motel is located, and I’m still confused.

A simple solution crosses my mind. “A map. Do you have one?”

She blinks at me.

“Mapa?” I’m not sure I’m making sense, but her eyes brighten, and she nods and holds up a hand. She disappears into her shop and returns with a folded map.

Things are smooth after that. She invites me into her shop and finds a pen. I watch over her broad shoulders as she draws circles and lines on the map.

I also ask her where the police station is, and she circles that too.

The distance between the liquor store and the police station seems shorter, so I decide to try and get a bed for the night first. If I do, I’ll go to the police station in the morning. All I can think of now is getting a shower and some sleep.

I thank the woman for her help. Before we part ways, she lets me use her bathroom and gives me a can of soda for the road. She tells me her name is Marissa. I tell her mine and say goodbye.

The motel is closer than I thought, no more than fifteen minutes from Marissa’s store.

When I finally reach the front door, my body collapses against it, pushing it open.