all I have in my wallet is my birthday money from the week before—hundred-dollar bills. Now my hand’s in my purse and this guy’s dirty palm is in my face, and his sunken eyes are on mine, so I ask Zee if she’ll loan me a few dollars, but she says no. No? The guy’s waiting and now he looks worried like am I seriously gonna leave him hanging. Fee and Delaney say they only have cards—no cash. So I’m obviously gonna give the old man one of my birthday hundys then. Right? I have to. So I did. The guy burst into tears.
Right in front of the guy, Jinny goes, “Oh my gosh, Rory, if you give him money, why would he ever want to get a job and earn his own?”
“Like the way we earn ours, Jinny?”
“If people don’t give them money, beggars won’t beg,” she says. “They’re like seagulls at the beach, Rory. If you give them food, they will never go away.”
“That’s straight-up unchristian, Jinny.”
“You’re hilarious, Rory.”
“Compassion, Jinny? Like, you don’t know anything about them. You don’t know what happened to put them on the street.”
“Prolly illegal,” Zee said, then turns to Fee and goes, “Sorry.”
We were in Prada, sifting through gowns, when I saw a security guy seize the old man and load him into the back of a van like a stray animal. Rolled him for the hundy, no doubt. Fuckers.
Wait! Oh my God! Just heard the cabin door.
Waiting.
Javier’s boots on the driveway.
Waiting.
Truck engine.
He isn’t gonna come check on us? Bring more water? Crackers? Hope? Instructions? Anything?
I was about to stop typing and peek out the door, but Javier shouted out, really, really loudly, “Good morning.”
To whom? Not us. I didn’t hear anyone respond, but maybe there’s someone out there—the drunk guy or someone else—and Javier shouted as a warning to us to stay put? Maybe there are copters on the horizon or drones nearby? Haven’t heard a whimper or whine or bark from the direction of the Airstream. I really hope that old dude leaves for work soon.
This just in: the Feds set up a website so people can report sightings and send in tips about us at CalabasasAVB.gov. The site crashed about five o’clock this morning as thousands of reports came in. Thousands. We’ve been seen at bus stations and airports and coffee shops all over the country. According to the news, a network of sympathizers has also connected over social, and they’ve been flooding the site with false sightings, just to send the authorities on wild-goose chases. Hundreds of pics have been sent from all over the freaking world. Women are dressing up in wedding gowns and Photoshopping pics of themselves running away from flames and smoke. There are images posted from the UK, and France, and Italy, and even freaking Brazil! People who believe in us—even if it’s only by default, because they hate our accusers so much—are trying to throw the hunters off our scent. So we have sympathizers. Hope? I see you.
And thank you, Santa Anas. I usually hate the winds because hair and fire, but right now I’m, like, blow devil, blow. Keep the machines grounded. People hate sky traffic as much as they hate ground traffic. They may not have to sit in it, but it intrudes on their lives anyway. I remember thinking about that when the girls and I were lazing at the Leons’ pool one day this summer, drinking virgin margs. You look up thinking a bird just flew by, but it’s a drone. Did it just take a pic of us? Privacy? Is there such a thing?
The bounty. A million dollars. I mean, I get that people want that prize. That’s a lot of money. So what about Javier? Will he be blowing leaves or pruning someone’s bushes under the baking sun today and just go, fuck it. I mean, he might not be able to bring his little daughter back from the grave, but with a million dollars he might be able to get his wife back from Mexico. Or he could go there and live with her like royalty. There’s a million things he could do with a million dollars. I wonder what I’d do, in his boots.
Brooky just posted video of men in suits taking computers and boxes of files and stuff out of my house. Did they find my little palm-cam? I don’t think so—my dresser weighs a ton. Bee wrote, “Rory’s mother in deep *&%#. Still being